


a sum of small things | camren (au)

by blake0tyler



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 112,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: You’re Lauren Jauregui. You danced the part of Clara in The Nutcracker for the first time when you were thirteen years old. You’ve already done two winter seasons of Swan Lake even though you’re only sixteen. You’ve topped all of your classes since the moment you started them. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even have to audition for the Fonteyn Academy for Classical and Contemporary Ballet, that’s how good you are.– and no one, not even this girl that dances barefoot to Italian music, is going to take it away from you.//"I'm not into girls.""I'm not into you."//'una somma di piccolo cose' - niccolò fabi





	1. the first year | july - december

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> A new fic :) This has been on my mind for a really long time already, but I've only just gotten around to writing the first part. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> -Blake

You watch Camila take the stage of the London Royal Opera House and it’s like you’re sixteen years old all over again. The way she spins and jumps and flies and _dances_ – your breath falls short in the back of your throat at every single turn.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. 

:::

**july**

:::

You remember it like this. The air inside the New York theatre a little too cold for your Barcelona jean shorts; your mother’s voice ringing in your ears as she calls out name after name after name; and then all your attention on her and on her only – she’s a little wild, a little messy, but her bare feet are stretched to perfection at every single _jeté_. You can feel your eyes narrowing and your mouth tightening and your fingernails digging right into the palms of your hands until they almost start bleeding.

You and Camila Cabello are not exactly off to a good start.

You’ve been sitting in the back row for almost two hours already, scanning through some old _Cosmo_ magazine, trying to block out your mother’s commentary, wishing you were back at home, in Spain, with your friends, with Lucy – because honestly, out of all the things that have happened since moving to New York, this may actually be the worst. Audition week at the Fonteyn Academy for Classical and Contemporary Ballet, and your mother wanting you to _participate_ in the selection procedure.

Of course, none of that is happening.  

You read your magazine and roll your eyes at your mother’s every comment, and you barely pay any attention to the bunch of annoying, overly excited sixteen year old who are supposed to become your new classmates next season. It’s not like they’ve got anything on you, anyway.  

“—and that completes the group session,” your mother shrieks into the microphone. “Everyone, prepare for solos. All girls with surnames A to E, please make your way to center stage.”

For fuck’s sake. Solos… That means you’ll be stuck here for at least another hour.

“Introducing Eva Adams. Whenever you’re ready, miss Adams.”

A skinny girl with red curls and a plain face makes her way onto the stage. She’s clearly nervous. You turn your attention back to the magazine as soon as you hear the opening notes of _the dying swan_. Such a fucking cliché.

More girls perform; every solo more predictable than the last. It’s not until your mother introduces the next girl – Camille or Camilla or something – that you suddenly look up, a spark of interest running through your veins at the way your mother shrieks out, “Miss Cabello, where are your pointe shoes?”

The girl in question is standing right in the middle of the stage. She’s dressed in black boy shorts and a gray tank top, and she’s barefoot. For a moment your eyes get caught on her long dark hair, the curve of her neck, her tan skin, her legs—

She doesn’t look like she’s sixteen yet.

Her voice is a little hoarse, when she replies with a shrug, “I don’t have any.”

The look on your mother’s face is absolutely priceless – and for the first time during the entire audition process you find yourself paying attention for longer than a couple of seconds. The girl shifts her weight from one foot to the other, straightening her spine. Then, her eyes find yours and for a moment your breath hitches in your throat, before you quickly look down again.

“Well…” your mother says as if all hope is lost completely. “We will definitely have to take a notion of that, Camila—”

_Camila._

“—but for now, whenever you’re ready.”

You keep your gaze down when the music starts playing, even though you’re surprised by her choice. You don’t recognize it. Strumming guitars. Italian. No _Sleeping Beauty, Giselle_ or _La Bayadere_.

But then, about a minute into the performance, your mother makes an almost inaudible “ah” next to you and you accidentally glance up.

It’s like someone snaps your spine.

The _Cosmo_ magazine ends up forgotten by your side as your heart starts racing high up in your chest and your breathing becomes ragged. You can’t think straight for entire minutes on end, your eyes following her every line, her every move. When the girl is done, her _révérence_ is perfect – and the expression on your mother’s face says it all.

You sit there, in the same spot you’ve been in all day, bored and uninterested in whatever has been going around you on stage. You think of all the people in this school, all the dancers that you’ve seen in your entire life. You subconsciously stretch your left foot, turn your knee out, the way you’ve been learning to do since you were two years old and then you look back at the girl.

For a moment you wonder what it must feel like – to be able to dance like she does.

But then, Camila Cabello flashes you a smile and your eyes narrow, your mouth falls into a straight line and you press your fingernails harshly into the palms of your hands.

This is ridiculous.

You’re Lauren Jauregui. You danced the part of Clara in _The Nutcracker_ for the first time when you were thirteen years old. You’ve already done two winter seasons of _Swan Lake_ even though you’re only sixteen. You’ve topped all of your classes since the moment you started them. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even have to audition for the Fonteyn Academy for Classical and Contemporary Ballet, that’s how good you are – and no one, not even this girl that dances barefoot to Italian music, is going to take it away from you.

You stare at her until she looks away.  

You and Camila Cabello are not exactly off to a good start.

:::

**august**

:::

This is not your city.

You don’t like the pace of it, you don’t like the people, you don’t like the heights and the streets and the stupid coffee obsession and the taxis and the buzz. You don’t like your parents’ cold penthouse apartment, where your dad spends most of his summer locked up in his office, while your mother drags you along to Fonteyn every single day because she wants to make you feel _prepared_ for when the school year starts. You don’t like the nannies that take care of your brother and sister while everyone else is away.

You miss the beach and the heat and the Spanish food. You miss the music. You miss Lucy’s eyes.

New York is not your city – and you’re pretty sure it never will be.

:::

**september**

:::

For your first class, you decide to show up late. 

You make out with Brad against the door of your dorm until your new roommate interrupts you by yanking it open abruptly, almost making your boyfriend topple over on top of you. You ignore Normani’s scoff, grab Brad’s hands and lead them under your shirt, relishing in the way his eyes go wide when you let him pull you into him, fingers on your bare hips – and then you quickly kiss him goodbye, and make your way down to the studios with a teasing grin. 

Everyone turns to look at you when you open the door. You walk along the length of the mirror and pause at the end for a moment to re-apply your red lipstick. You take your time stripping out of your clothes, dropping your bag on the floor and hanging Brad’s black sweater over the end of the barre like you own the damn dance studio.

In a way, you kind of do.  

Your mother sighs hard, but clearly doesn’t want to tell you off in front of everyone on the first day. Instead, she glares at you, before snapping, rather briskly, “Lauren, fix your hair. It’s a ridiculous mess.”

You flip her off behind her back – causing a couple of almost inaudible gasps from the other girls – and then you pull your hair up into a tight knot. You run your hand over the hem of your black leotard, right over your collarbone, making sure to keep everyone’s eyes on you – and then you lift your leg up high on the barre easily.

_Time to show these bitches how it should be done._

Right as you move to bend forward, however, the door slams open again.

“Sorry – oh my God – I overslept and then I couldn’t find the studio and—”

You don’t bother turning around to look, rolling your eyes at the disturbance, but then your mother exclaims forcefully, “Being late will _not_ be tolerated here at Fonteyn, Camila.”

At the sound of her name, you spin around.

She’s not at all dressed for a two-hour classical ballet rehearsal; dark blue jeans, leather jacket over a red crop top. She’s even wearing sneakers, for fuck’s sake.  

Your mother seems to realize it at the same time, shrieking out, a little panicked, “—and why aren’t you properly dressed?”

Camila shifts a little uncomfortably under your mother’s intense stare. “Sorry – like I said, I overslept and I didn’t really have time to – well, I thought I could just…”

She trails off, before abruptly kicking off her shoes and shrugging out of her leather jacket. Your mother’s eyes go wide as Camila unbuttons her jeans and pulls them down her legs, before hooking her fingers around the hem of her top and dragging it up over her head until she’s in nothing but tight black shorts and a sports bra.

Your throat goes dry.

“Sorry,” Camila says again, “Please don’t send me away. I won’t be late again, I promise.”

Your mother looks like she’s never had a worse beginning of the school year in her entire life. Then, she throws her hands up and bites out, “Fine – go warm up next to Lauren. I will not accept either of you being late again.” She turns to the other girls. “Where were we? Right – _tendu, demi plié, tendu,_ and then again on the other side. Listen to the music. Five, six, seven, and…”

Camila gives your mother a smile of relief which does not get returned, before she walks over to you. She pulls her hair up in a high ponytail and then extends her hand. “Are you Lauren?”

Your eyes narrow – _as if this bitch doesn’t know who you are._

“Yes,” you snap anyway, not taking her hand, and adding with a bite, “Way to fuck up on your first day.”

Camila frowns lightly, gaze shifting between you and the group who are already working their way through choreography, before saying with half a smile, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

You stare at her. She’s standing pretty close to you, hands on her hips, not in the least intimidated by your presence. You try not to let your gaze catch on the hard line of her collarbone, her toned stomach, the smooth skin of her legs—

“Do you mind moving over?” you snap out. “I need space.”

Camila’s eyebrows shoot up, before she shakes her head in disbelief. “Fucking hell, you sure do.”

She moves backwards, placing her hands on the barre in front of her. For some reason, you’re still staring at her, gaze stuck on her way her stomach slightly flexes when she moves. As soon as she notices it, she turns her head. “I’m Camila, by the way – thanks for asking.”

She flashes you a grin, right before throwing her leg up high on the barre just as easily as you did before – maybe even easier.

:::

**october**

:::

Attending Fonteyn with these talentless idiots might be the absolute worst thing that you’ve ever had to do in your entire life – and the fact that it’s a boarding school sure as hell doesn’t help.

You can’t get a single second of freedom, constantly under your mother’s scrutiny. The days are endless, beginning with two hours of classical training, followed by breakfast. After that, you’ve got four hours of regular classes – mathematics, Latin, physics, English – then, lunch, followed by another four hours of class – French, chemistry, biology and history – and then it’s time for your afternoon training: another two-hour classical session, an hour break, and then two hours of contemporary. Any free time you might have had in the evenings is taken up by homework. The same thing goes for weekends. No excuses.  

It’s the fucking worst.

Not the dancing, of course. You knew what you signed up for; you knew it would be tough. Besides, you’re good at performing under pressure – and ballet is the love of your life. What you didn’t expect, however, was having to spend all your damn time with the same group of annoying girls who don’t understand the first thing about dancing. You curse your mother every single day for not letting you live off campus in your parents’ apartment.  

“I hate every single person here, Luce,” you tell your best friend over Skype when you’re close to passing out on your bed, at the end of the first month. “Fuck, I just wish I was back in Barcelona with you.”

Lucy gives you a half smile. “Me too, babe. Sorry you’re having such a rough time.”

You fall back into your pillows, sighing hard in frustration. “It’s just annoying, you know. I didn’t come all the way to New York to be constantly surrounded by a bunch of childish nobodies. It’s exhausting, having to lower my standards all the time.”

At that, Lucy laughs. “Lo, stop being a bitch.” She shifts on her bed, lying down on her stomach before she adds, “I mean, the auditions are really tough, right? I’m sure these girls must be somewhat talented, or else they wouldn’t have gotten in…”

You roll your eyes. For some reason your mind flashes to Camila’s audition, the one performance that had you trembling in your seat for a moment.

“I mean, there’s this one girl…” you start, thinking of Camila’s _grand jetés_ and her _fouettés en tournants_ that somehow have you staring at her during classes, no matter how hard you try to look away _._

Lucy’s eyebrows rise in surprise—

—and you shake yourself out of it immediately.

“Actually, now that I think about it, she’s not that great,” you say. “She’s always late because she lives off campus, and she’s so reckless – just energy and _no control_ , you know – like, seriously, how the fuck did you even get into a classical ballet academy if you can’t properly pace yourself? She doesn’t even own a pair of pointe shoes either – and she danced in her fucking _underwear_ during the first class…” You scoff. “Such a show-off.”

Lucy stares at you, not saying anything.

Then she smiles. “How’s everything with Brad?”

At that, you can’t help but blush a little, smirking at your best friend. “Things are good…”

“Yeah?” Lucy says, before adding with a grin, “Have you lost your v-card yet?”

You roll your eyes. “Please, you’d be the first to know. Not that I even have time for that with this crazy schedule. Besides, there’s the whole roommate situation, of course…” The corner of your mouth curls upwards. “Brad really wants to, though.”

Lucy smiles. “Of course he does. Tell me again how you managed to get a boyfriend not even a _week_ after you moved to the other side of the world? Way to replace me right away, Lo…” You blow her a kiss and she grins before exclaiming, in fake annoyance, “Oh my God, stop flirting with me already, you’ve got a boyfriend now!”

You can’t help but grin – you don’t think there’s anyone in the world you like more than you like Lucy. Not even Brad. “But you still have my heart, of course.”  

Lucy smiles at you. “Smooth, sexy.” She sighs hard. “I miss you – Barcelona is not even half as fun without you here…”

You run a hand through your hair. “Only four more months until Christmas break.”

Lucy nods. “Only four more months until I’m going to steal you away from everyone else for entire days on end. I don’t care about your boyfriend or your ballet career – you’re still mine, ok?”

You’re exhale is a little shaky when you mumble, “Yes – still yours.”

//

On Saturday, the weekend after, your mother makes you go buy a pair of pointe shoes with Camila.

“What the actual fuck—” you start, when she calls the both of you into her office after your class. “Why can’t she do it herself? _She’s not four years old, is she_?”

Camila rolls her eyes. “ _She_ is standing right here, first of all – and _she_ would actually also prefer to go alone.”

Your mother gives you both a long, hard stare. “Camila, you’ve never owned a single pair of pointe shoes in your life, Lauren can give you advice.”

“But—”

Your mother holds up her hand at you. “Lauren, it’s not up for discussion. Take her to _Grishko_ – I’ve already scheduled a fitting appointment with Judy Weiss. Remember Judy? She’s very excited to see you again.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve agreed to hang out with Brad.”

At that, your mother’s mouth forms a straight line. “Bradley can wait. Now, off you go.”

_For fuck’s sake._ You spin around, walking out of your mother’s office, not even bothering to wait for Camila. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible then.

“So,” Camila says when you make your way through the fence. “Brad’s your boyfriend?”

You scoff. “It’s none of your business.”

Camila doesn’t back off, not wasting a beat before replying, “Major credits to him for dating you.”

At that, you turn around to face her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The corner of her mouth curls upwards. “Damn, you’re too intense – I was only kidding.” She shakes her head. “Stop being so sensitive the whole time.”

There’s a tight, hot feeling in the center of your chest. “Look,” you snap. “I didn’t ask for this, ok? I’ve got much better ways to spend my Saturday afternoons than hang out in New York City with _you._ I don’t know you and I don’t like you, and I’m not about to pretend I do, so let’s just get this over with, yeah?”

Camila smiles, before saying, completely unfazed by your little outburst, “Have you even made _any_ friends here yet?”

Your mouth parts as an ice cold shiver runs down your spine.

“Thought so,” she says. “You see, that’s what happens if you go around not liking people you don’t even know.”

“Fuck you,” you mumble, “I’m calling a taxi.”

“A taxi?” Camila’s eyes go wide. “Jesus, you’re so damn spoiled. We’re taking the subway – it’s faster and it’s cheaper. They’re located on West 50th right?” She starts walking away from you, clearly knowing where she’s going. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes if you follow me.”

You’re a little startled. “Wait – you’re from New York?”

“Hurry up and maybe I’ll tell you,” she calls after you. “You know, if you can manage not to be a self-centered, narcissistic bitch for a minute or so.”

The hot, burning feeling in the center of your chest intensifies and you curse under your breath, but then you hurry after Camila, anyway. There’s not really anything else you can do but to follow her.

//

It turns out she _does_ know her way around. You end up at _Grishko_ in no time.

When you step into the store, you forget about the fact that you’re here against your will for a moment. The sight of the endless lines of pointe shoes and ballet leotards never fails to amaze you a little. You can feel your chest soften – this is your world. This is where you know exactly how to be.

Judy Weiss is an old friend of your mother’s.

“My, oh, my,” she says, walking up to you. “Lauren Jauregui. You really are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?” She grabs your face between her hands and kisses both your cheeks. “You are looking _gorgeous_ , darling – remind me, how old are you again?”

“Sixteen,” you mumble. For some reason it sounds younger than usual. You don’t really know why.

Judy glances over at Camila. “You’ve brought a friend with you?”

You cringe at the word _friend_ , and Camila just laughs like it’s the most absurd thing she’s heard in her entire life.

“We go to Fonteyn together,” she says then, extending her hand. “I’m Camila.”

Judy’s eyes light up. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing, too!”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Ballet people – _so theatrical_ …

“Tell me, my loves,” Judy says, “How can I help you?”

You hang back a little, while Camila tries on different pairs of pointe shoes, only occasionally commenting, mostly to let Camila know whenever she is doing something wrong.

You try not to be too impressed when she pretty much figures out how to stand up on them right away for a few seconds, though. Of course, she has a lot to learn. She’s pretty clumsy and her balance and positioning could use a lot of improvement. But most people don’t get it right on their very first try. Judy Weiss is absolutely ecstatic, of course.

“My, oh, my!” she yells. “Look at you go, darling. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

Camila shakes her head. “I haven’t done a lot of professional training.”

“Really?” Judy says.

You feel your own eyebrows rise involuntarily as well.

“My mother was a ballet dancer, though,” Camila says. “I learned most things from her, at home.”

Judy smiles. “Well, it’s a great thing that you’re at Fonteyn now. That school really is the place to be for sixteen year old aspiring ballerinas.”

Camila smiles. “I don’t turn sixteen until next year.”

_Fuck_ – you knew she was younger than you. For some reason, it makes your chest tight and your eyes narrow. Fonteyn never lets anyone in unless they’re sixteen or older. Why the hell did they make an exception? You scowl at Camila’s casual expression in the mirror, trying to ignore the voice in the back of your mind that reminds you that you know exactly why they made the exception…

“I think I’ll take these,” Camila says then, holding up a pair of black pointe shoes.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Judy smiles. “Don’t forget to break them in, yeah? Lauren can help you out with that.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Seriously, you’re not this chick’s personal assistant… Why does everyone keep insisting you do stuff together?

Camila seems to think along similar lines, when she replies with a glance in your direction, “I think I’ll be able to figure it out for myself, thanks.”

Judy’s grins slightly. “God – you two are something. You actually remind me a lot of Clara and I when we were younger. I can’t wait to see you perform together at Christmas.”

She hugs you close to her again when you’re about to leave the store. “Give your mother my regards, Lauren.”

You nod.

Then, Judy Weiss gives you a knowing look. “Sweetheart,” she says, before throwing a subtle look in Camila’s direction. “She’s a lovely girl – it won’t kill you to try and see it.”

You try to give her your best smile, but all you think is _don’t fucking count on it._   

:::

**november**

:::

Brad’s body consists of rough, muscled edges that makes him shiver when you trace your fingers over them – sharp shoulder blades, lines in his stomach, pointy hip bones. His shirt is lying forgotten on the floor in the corner of your room while he lowers himself between your legs, kissing you deeply.

You try to focus.

His hair is messy, because you’ve been running your hands through it for about half an hour already. His curls are a little rough against your skin when he presses his lips to your neck, sucking lightly, as he runs his hand over your stomach. His fingers catch on the waistband of your sweatpants and he falls still against you for a moment.

You try to focus – you want to lose yourself in his touch; you want him to make your legs tremble; you want him to heat your whole body up like Lucy told you it’s supposed to feel like – but it’s not happening.

You’re frustrated out of your mind.

During contemporary this afternoon, your mother moved Camila to the front of the class, telling everyone _this is how you’re supposed to do it._

Even the thought stings in your stomach.

“Lauren,” Brad murmurs in your ear. “Are you ok?”

You stare at your boyfriend – your hot, sexy boyfriend who’s got messy hair and is in an actual band – and before you can stop yourself, you tell him, “I want to have sex with you right now.”

Brad’s eyes go wide. He blushes hard under your gaze and right away, you know it’s going to work. You might not really be turned on at the moment, but at least Brad thinks you’re the most amazing person in the entire fucking world, no matter how you dance during contemporary – it will totally help to kick your confidence into place.

“A-all right,” he says. “Can I take your shirt off?”

You take your shirt off and unhook your bra right away, trying to speed up the process. Brad seems like he’s going to explode right out of his skin with excitement. He falls back into you, pressing you back on your bed, his chest bare against your breasts.

He runs his hand over your ribs, and you think about Camila’s perfect solo during classical this morning. Completely improvised, yet fucking perfect of course. Brad cups your boob, softly stroking over it with his fingers, and all you can visualize is the way Camila’s thighs flexed during her _jetés_. Brad leans in to kiss you and you think of Camila in nothing but her sports bra and her boy shorts, dancing right in front of you. For a moment, all you see is the curve of her neck, the heavy brown of her eyes, the lines of her stretched feet, her stomach, her legs, her—

You moan softly.

Then, Brad’s fingers slip inside your panties and he touches you a little messily, clearly not entirely sure if he’s allowed to.

You can feel yourself frown a little, snapped back into reality by the move. It doesn’t feel too bad, so you decide to let him continue. It doesn’t exactly feel too good, either, but maybe you’ll get there. You just have to focus.

You wrap your arms around Brad’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer, trying to keep your attention on him. He moves his fingers over you and it feels all right, but after a moment, you can’t help but sigh a little, because it’s not really doing anything for you.

“Let me—” you mumble. “Let me try something.”

You bring your hand down between your bodies, slipping your fingers over his. You stare up at Brad, focusing on his eyes and his jaw and his scent, so close to you. You guide his fingers over you, looking right up at him. His breath hitches in his throat.

“Laur—”

“Shh,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall shut.

You think about Camila’s leg, pushed up high on the barre as she stretches into it.

“This feels really good.”

You think of her flushed cheeks at the end of every class, about the haze in her eyes, the light layer of sweat on her shoulders—

“Just keep doing this…”

A heavy shiver runs through your body and Brad groans when the tips of his fingers under yours suddenly find your arousal.

You bite your lip, losing yourself completely in the way Camila always—

The door to your room flies open and a split second later, you’re rudely interrupted by Normani’s scream.

“Oh my – _Jesus_ ,” she exclaims loudly, before slamming the door closed, right after you still hear her scoff, “I did not sign up for this, Jauregui!”

Brad rolls off you completely and you’re startled out of all of it, suddenly realizing with full shock where your thoughts just went. You can feel yourself flush scarlet in less than a second. You roll over and grab your bra and shirt off the floor. 

Brad stares at you, a little uncertain, “Uh – don’t you want to—”

“No,” you snap, a little harsher than you intended. “No, I don’t – I don’t feel like it anymore…” You quickly put your clothes on again. “Maybe you should go.”

Brad frowns. “Lauren, are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” you cut out at him. “I just – I’ve actually got a lot of stuff to do.”

He nods, picking his shirt up off the floor. “Ok, well – I’ll call you tonight, then?”   

“Sure,” you answer breathlessly.

He makes his way out of your room. You fall back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, before grabbing your phone and texting Lucy: _Brad and I almost had sex. Got interrupted, though. Fucking roommate. I’ll tell you later._

You don’t wait for her response, sitting up again, feeling completely restless. Then, you grab your sweater from the floor and search for your ballet shoes.

You need to dance.

//

The studio is empty when you walk in, thankfully. You throw your sweater in the corner and you pull your t-shirt off too, because it makes you think of Brad for some stupid reason. You plug your iPod in the stereo, switch it straight to Sia’s _This Is Acting_ and hit play before you can change your mind.

It takes you less than ten seconds to fall into it. Your body always knows how to make you feel ok again; the ache in your muscles, the burning in your lungs; the steady beat of your heart, right in the very center of your chest – there is nothing like this.

You dance through the entire album, improvising your way through it, until you’re sweaty all over. The thought of Brad and everything that just happened is slowly beginning to fade. After the last note, you hit play again, beginning all over again, because you’re not done yet. You can barely see straight anymore, that’s how hard you’re going at it. You don’t notice anything besides the beat and the singing and your feet on the floor, mapping out the way to your empty mind—

“You don’t dance like this in class.”

She’s leaning against the wall and you come to an abrupt halt. Your chest is heaving up and down with labored breaths – and Camila looks at you like she’s never seen you before in her entire life.

Your voice is hoarse when you breathe out, “What do you want?”

She drops her bag to the floor. “I booked this studio, actually – thought I would put in some extra practice dancing on pointe. I’ve been standing here for ten minutes, already.”

“Oh—” you rasp out, trying to control your breathing. “Ok – I’ll leave. I – I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

You walk over to the mirror, grabbing your shirt from the floor, and looking around for your bag.

Then, Camila says, “Why don’t you dance like that in class?”

Your mind is spinning. You’re not exactly sure what you’re supposed to feel now that she’s suddenly right in front of you even though you’ve been trying to clear your head from all thoughts related to her for the last hour or so—

“What do you mean?” you ask, anyway.

She takes a step forward, running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Your gaze catches on her mouth. “Just – I don’t…” she mumbles. “I don’t understand why you never dance like _that._ ”

There’s a sharp sting of annoyance in your chest. “Like _what_ , Camila?”

“So—” Her breath hitches in her throat. “—so fucking powerful.”

At that, your eyes lock into hers and for a moment you’re completely overwhelmed by how genuinely impressed she sounds.

Then, you force yourself to shrug it off. “Ballet is about control. This is the complete opposite.” You throw her a look. “I know when to dance in which way.”

She stares at you, not saying anything. You grab your bag, gathering your stuff. Then, you walk over to the stereo set to unplug your iPod. When you turn back, Camila is strapping on her pointe shoes.

“Don’t you need to cool off?” she says. “Stretch or something.”

You stay silent.

“Come on,” she says then. “Don’t be a bitch about it. You know you don’t have to leave this very second.” She rolls her eyes. “Just stretch, like you’re supposed to.”

You frown hard, before scoffing, “Fine – I won’t be long, anyway.”

You move over to the barre and quickly start your stretching exercises. On the other end of the mirror, Camila does the same thing, except to warm up. You can’t help but watch her as she moves sideways, placing her hand on the barre and moving up on her pointe shoes. Her arms are perfect; distance between index finger and thumb exactly right, shoulders low. She’s still struggling with her feet, though.

Before you know what you’re doing, you walk over.

“Here,” you mumble, lowering yourself to the floor and grabbing her ankle, turning it right into position without asking her permission. “It’s supposed to be like this…”

Camila stumbles and then drops down to the soles of her feet. “Fuck,” she groans in frustration. “It’s so difficult.”

“Make sure to push off strong,” you tell her, before you consider what you’re doing, grabbing her foot again. “I’ll position you. Just push off and—” She pushes off right away. Your fingers fall over the top of her foot as you stabilize her. “Right – that’s it. Now, let go of the barre…”

“I don’t—”

“Come on, you’ve got to feel what it’s like or you’ll never get used to it.”

She lets go of the barre, stumbling for a moment, before finding her balance. You slowly stand up again, taking a step back to watch her form. She’s staring at you hard. “Like this?”

“Yes – Just…”

Before you can stop yourself, you move in, placing one hand hand on the flat of her stomach and the other on her back to straighten her spine. “Like this.”

You turn, eyes accidentally locking right into hers. She stumbles forward immediately and it snaps you right out of it.

_What the hell are you doing?_

For a moment you both just stare at each other. Then, you grab your bag off the floor and leave the studio without saying anything else, trying to shake off the feeling of Camila’s skin right under your fingertips.

You don’t text Lucy about any of that.

:::

**december**

:::

It starts to happen in December.

No one knows about it. It’s not something you talk about, not even with each other. It just… happens. 

After three full months, your days at Fonteyn are more ballet-filled than ever because of rehearsals for your first complete performance on Christmas Eve. In the case of classical ballet, you’ve been top of your class since the first week. However, with the additional hours that go into rehearsals, you’ve fallen to second place in contemporary, right behind Camila. It pisses you off more than you’d like to admit. You don’t have much time to see Brad – and you’d rather spend the few free hours that you have in your week Skyping with Lucy, anyway. Besides that, your only point of focus is the damn Christmas Eve performance and making sure you steal back first place in contemporary from Camila Cabello.

Ironically enough, she becomes the one to help you out with that.

You keep running into each other in the studios outside of class hours. After you spend about two weeks frustrating yourself with trying to book a studio before she does, you give up, instead not bothering to leave anymore when it’s her time and not sending her away when it’s your time.

You don’t talk about it. It just… happens.

//

“Stop straining your neck.”

You sigh hard, trying to push your shoulders back to relax the line of your throat, while you move forward, but _damn it_ , you’re late again and—

“Your movements are too tense.”

_Fuck this fucking contemporary choreography_.

“Lauren—”

She steps up to you. There’s a moment in which the brown of her eyes flashes right in front of yours as she moves in closely – but then her fingers fall to the bare skin of your neck and your mind entirely closes in on _that_.

“Here…” she mumbles, running them over the line of your shoulder, pressing down. “Don’t strain so much.”

Her face is right in front of yours as she watches the line of your arms intently, not realizing that all you’re able to see is the dark of her eyelashes and the barely visible freckles on the bridge of her nose and the red of her lips, while she runs her fingers right over the base of your throat, right over your heated skin—

You push her off of you abruptly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She backs away at the sudden movement, before raising her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

You feel tense all over as you bite out, “Why are you touching me like that?”

“What are you—” Camila frowns “I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, keep your hands off of me,” you snap.  

She sighs hard. “Lauren, you’re fucking impossible. I wasn’t even doing—”

“ _I’m not into girls_ ,” you cut out before you can stop yourself. “I have a boyfriend.”

Camila’s eyes go wide for a second and then she starts laughing. “Oh my God… get over yourself.”

She spins around and walks to the end of the barre, still laughing. With a shake of disbelief, she turns her attention back to her exercises, not bothering to look in your direction anymore, except to add, “Trust me – I’m not into you.”  

You feel completely heated and feverish. With a frustrated exhale, you turn your attention back to your movements, trying to feel it in your bones, trying to let your muscles do the work for you, while you block your thoughts.

“You know,” Camila says after a moment. “You’re never going to get that solo right if you don’t start to loosen up.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” you lash out, spinning around so hard that you almost crash straight into the barre. “I’m trying, ok? It’s not that easy.”

At that, Camila comes back down from her pointe shoes, placing her hands on the barre, before turning to face you again. “Yes, it is,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Lauren, it _is_ that easy.”

For a moment both of you just stare at each other. Then, Camila says, “Why are you not dancing to music?”

“Because I need to focus on the choreography first,” you bite out. “Obviously.”

Camila rolls her eyes, walking over to the stereo where your iPod is plugged in even though you haven’t been using it. “What did you have in mind for your solo?”

You don’t know why, but for some reason you answer her question before you can stop yourself. “ _American_ by Lana Del Rey.”

At that, Camila smiles. “Obviously.”

You sigh hard. “What are you doing?”

She flips through your iPod until she’s found the song. Then, she says, “Forget about the choreo for a moment, yeah?”

“Camila, I really don’t—”

“Shh,” she cuts you off. “Just – let me try something.”

Your breath hitches in the back of your throat because for some reason your mind shoots straight to when you were in your dorm with Brad between your legs and you told him the very same thing, with your thoughts spinning on the image of—

You’re so startled that you realize too late that she’s already put the song on. Before you can tell her to stop, she moves over to the door and then – without giving you any sort of warning – flips all the lights off at once.

In a second, the studio turns pitch black, and you’re not able to see a single thing.

“Camila, what the _fuck_ ,” you exclaim, already stumbling forward in the direction of the door, so you can turn the lights back on.

She crashes right into you in the middle of the room.

“Damn it,” you curse. “What the hell are you doing? Why did you turn the lights off? What is wrong with—”

“ _Lauren_ ,” she snaps at you, pushing your shoulders back harshly to steady you. “Just stop fucking around for _one second_ and stand still.”

You’re so disorientated that you can’t help but stop dead in your tracks. Camila’s hands are still on your shoulders. You can’t make out a single thing with your eyes, but you can feel that she’s right in front of you.

_Play house / Put my favorite record on_

You take a deep breath, trying to stop yourself from trembling, trying to make out shapes around you, trying to clear your mind to figure out what to do. It’s utterly and impossibly dark, all around you. Your senses sharpen. 

_Driving around the city / Flirting with the girls, like, ‘you’re so pretty’_

“Ok…” Camila breathes out. “For the next three minutes, don’t be difficult and just see what happens, ok? I used to do this all the time and trust me, it works.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she seems to sense it, because she adds, with slight annoyance, “Lauren, it’s just three minutes. No one is watching you.”

Your breathing goes uneven. Camila’s hands fall down from your shoulder, and then she steps right up to you, even closer. She runs her fingers right over the top of your arm until she finds your wrist.

_You make me crazy / You make me wild_

She moves her fingers up your palm, before she slides them down to the tip of your index finger, pressing the tip of her own finger against it until that’s the only part of your bodies that are touching.

“Start from here,” she says then. “Dance.”

“Dance?” you sputter. “What do you—”

“Just – try it,” she mumbles and you fall still, because you can’t think straight if you’re not able to make out where exactly she’s positioned herself, whether she’s close to you or not and it’s freaking you out, because you _don’t want_ her hands on you, even if she’s only touching the tip of your finger.

You take another shaky breath. “Camila, I don’t think I can—”

She pushes against your finger then, moving it slowly backwards until your hand is forced to follow through with the movement. Then, she does it again, timed to the music, softly flowing the rhythm into your hand.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers. “Just listen.”

_What the hell?_ You’re not about to close your eyes, damn it – you’re already in a pitch black studio, unable to make out a single thing—

“Close them, Lauren,” she says.

Your eyes flutter shut.

_Be young, be dope, be proud / Like an American._

The music is echoing in your mind now. There’s a strange tenseness in your body that is slowly building, a feeling you’re not exactly used to. The beat pulses against you ribcage as the muscles of your chest contract – and then you move your hand, almost involuntarily, pushing your fingers right between Camila’s, right on the beat.

For a moment you stutter out of it again as your nerves take over, but then the burning core inside of your body that _lives_ for dancing takes over and it’s stronger than your inhibitions, so you pull her hand closer into yours, following the movement through with your wrist, your elbow, your arm, your shoulder—

The tiniest shockwave pulses through your body at the unexpected intensity of it. You do it again, letting the movement flow out from the point where your hand is touching hers.

You’ve been dancing since you were two years old; you know how to feel it to the very core of your soul.

_Just like a baby / You spin me round like a child_

You push your leg out then, letting the music pulse in your veins, pushing your body forward, pushing you past the shame of dancing in a darkened studio with a girl you don’t like. You push out strongly, and then you let the movement soften, let yourself relax into all the difficult spins and turns and positions that your body wants to do.

You bring your hand up and shrug your hair out of your tight knot, loosening the fingers from your other hand that is still interlaced with Camila’s for a moment, as your hair falls down and your movements pulse through your shoulders, through your chest— 

You can feel your heartbeat in your ears as the music takes over. You don’t have to force it, anymore.

_I don’t really want the rest / Only you can take me there_

Your hand disconnects from Camila as you start to dance a little wider, a little bolder. You can feel the space around you now, the liberty to do whatever the hell you want to—

No one is watching you _._

It’s just you and the music and the floor, the walls, the points where your feet burn the patterns into the mat as you spin your _pirouettes_. You lose track of time as you keep dancing through the studio, only absentmindedly registering that the song is playing on repeat. You just jump and fly and _dance_ and she’s right – it _is_ that easy. Your chest is burning, and your muscles are pulsing and your heart beats completely in-sync with the music and you don’t ever want to stop, you don’t ever want to stop—

You crash right into her, the momentum so rough that you stumble forward, knocking her over onto the floor abruptly.

Your eyes fly right open as you snap out of it. You still can’t see a thing.

“ _Fuck_ – sorry,” Camila chokes out below you. “I lost my focus for a moment so I couldn’t really feel you coming in my direction and I—”

She falls silent.

You’re both panting and you’re not able to make out anything, but you can feel her right beneath your body – breath hot against your throat, chest heaving up and down under yours, skin so soft and feverish and —

You roll off her right away.

“Oh my God,” you mumble. “I’m sorry – I – _fuck_.”

With your thoughts spinning, you get to your feet and blindly make your way over to the door, running your hand over the wall, until you’ve found the switch and then—

Everything lights up again.  

You both blink against the brightness. It takes you a moment to clear your vision. Camila is still on the floor, staring up at you with a completely unreadable expression. You can feel the heat on your cheeks as you blush hard, suddenly snapped right back into reality.

Lana Del Rey is still playing in the background.

_You make me crazy / You make me wild_

You walk right over and hit pause. Abrupt silence falls over the studio.

Then, Camila says, “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Yeah, I’m – I… I think I’m…”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what to _feel._ Camila is staring at you so intently and your entire body is still burning from the inside out. You’re unable to stop yourself from trembling, you’re unable to register any coherent thought, _nothing_ besides the shivers down your back and the look in her eyes and—

Before you can stop yourself, you breathe out, “Can we do that again?”

//

Your mother gives you top marks for your contemporary solo. You don’t look at Camila when you receive your evaluation form. You don’t pay attention to Camila at all. You don’t talk to her during class and you don’t thank her for her help, either – because that’s not what you do.

Instead, when you walk into the studio later that evening, you spend an entire hour perfecting her technique on pointe together with her. Then, you flick the lights off, walk up close to her and grab her hand in yours. You don’t talk about it. You don’t even really think about it – but your mind is spinning, anyway.

Lana Del Rey lyrics. Closed eyes. The touch of her skin right under your fingertips as you dance in complete darkness.

//

Lucy arrives early in the morning on the 24th.

She’s all tan skin, infectious smile and _making your heart skip for a second_ when she runs up to you through the arrivals hall and almost crashes you right to the ground. Your entire chest swells up when she grabs your face between her hands and kisses your cheeks twenty different times.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she says then, face lit up with pure happiness.

You laugh. “Yes – but fuck class.”

Lucy squeals and hugs you again, before leaning back and looking you up and down. “Damn it, you look stunning, Lo. Brad’s one lucky guy.”

You blush hard for some reason, before giving her your widest smile. “It’s actually all for you, babe…”

She shoves your shoulder playfully. “Fuck off – let’s get out of here, sexy.”

You drop Lucy’s stuff off at your parents’ house first, which is where you’ll be staying over Christmas break and after that, you spend the entire day in the city – laughing and talking and spending your mother’s money in fancy restaurants. You know you should probably take your best friend to see some of the tourist attractions since it’s her first time in New York, but you couldn’t care less. All you want to do is look at her eyes and make stupid jokes and feel so _goddamn_ confident when you walk through the busy streets and she’s right next to you.

Unfortunately, after the fourteenth missed call from your mother, you have to face the reality that is ballet again – the Christmas Eve performance starts in three hours already.

“All right,” you say to Lucy. “You ready to see Fonteyn?”

She smiles at you, before interlacing her fingers through yours. “Lead the way.”

You only get to spend a little bit more time with her, before your mother snatches you away and forces you to prepare with the other girls. You barely manage to blow Lucy a kiss as goodbye while she yells after you that she’ll be sitting front row – and then you’re sucked right into the pre-performance stress of your fellow classmates.

Everyone seems on the brink of all sorts of breakdowns. Costumes that aren’t fitting properly, tights are ripped already, someone’s hairspray is missing—

The only one who seems rather unfazed by it all is Camila, of course. She sits in the back of the dressing room, music in her ears. When you enter the locker room, her eyes briefly catch on yours and she gives you half a smile. You decide to only give her short nod in return, which makes her roll her eyes in annoyance, which in turn, makes you smile a little bit.

You get yourself ready, quickly – the excitement of your first proper Fonteyn performance and the fact that Lucy is right there to watch it, pulsing in your veins.

The performance itself passes in a blur. The lights, the audience, the music – you _dance_ and it feels so fucking good to remember that this is why you do it, that this is why you love it so much. You can barely contain your excitement.

Afterwards, there’s some sort of formal party to attend – mostly networking stuff. You watch your mother tour around the room, talking to all sorts of important people, fellow dancers and company directors. You make sure she doesn’t have her eyes on you for a moment, and then you sneak a bottle of champagne from the table, running over to your best friend to pull her in one of the more secluded areas of the theatre foyer.

You’re just about to bring the bottle to your lips, when Lucy casually says, “Who’s that girl over there in the red dress?”

You follow her gaze, and your heart stutters for a moment when your eyes land on Camila. She is standing next to the bar, talking to Normani. Her hair is flowing down her back in long, messy waves and she’s wearing a short, red cocktail dress that falls exactly right, perfectly accentuating her—

“Oh,” you say, quickly averting your eyes again. “Um – that’s Camila.”

The corner of Lucy’s mouth curls upwards as she studies your face for a moment.

Then she says, “She was really good. I loved her solo.”

You bite down hard on your lip, before bringing the bottle of champagne to your mouth and taking a quick gulp. Your eyes fall back to Camila, smiling and laughing, sucking all of the attention of all the people around her right to her addictive smile.

You shrug. “I’ve seen better, actually.”

You try to ignore the way the lie stings in your chest.  

:::

When you drop Lucy off at the airport a week later, your throat closes off for a moment when you have to say goodbye.

“It’s ok, Lo,” she mumbles against your ear, hugging you close. “I bet we’ll see each other soon again – maybe you can come to Barcelona in the spring.”

You nod in her shoulder, not able to say anything else through your tears. She presses her lips to your cheek softly, and then she walks away, not looking back anymore – always better at goodbyes than you are.

The drive back to campus is absolute hell. You can’t think straight, entirely overcome by hurt and frustration and anger over the fact that you’re going to have to be here in New York for the next _three and a half years_. You and Lucy are not going to be able to see each other on a daily basis for almost four more fucking years.

You know you agreed to go out for dinner with your family, but you don’t feel like it. There is only one place where you want to be right now and it’s the dance studio, where you can work your body into exhaustion so you don’t have to think about Lucy’s smile anymore.

When you open the door, you come to an abrupt halt.

You didn’t think she’d be here – not during holidays.

The song that is coming through the boxes sounds vaguely familiar; strumming guitars, Italian lyrics. Camila is dancing through the space on her black pointe shoes, all balance and power and complete control – fuck, you can’t believe the rate with which she’s been improving during the past few months.

You drop your bag on the floor, which makes her look up, startled out of her routine. Her hair is a little messy, her cheeks are flushed and she’s trembling lightly with the intensity of her movements when she falls back down to the soles of her feet.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” you mumble.

Her eyes trace over your features and she frowns a little. “Have you been crying?”

“ _What_ —” you breathe out, quickly running the back of your hand over your eyes. “No.”

You step forward, not bothering to warm up. You flick the lights off without asking Camila’s permission. All you feel is frustration and tension – so you’re not about to be considerate. She lets you do it, though, lets the dark fold itself around your bodies, without saying a word.

In the shortest amount of time, this has become the most addictive thing you’ve ever done – dancing like this.

There’s something so reckless about it, about forcing your body to know exactly where to go in pitch black darkness, about forcing your body to sense where _she_ is at any given point as well.

Everything blurs; the music, your movements, Camila’s skin brushing against yours from time to time. You don’t stop until you’re both panting, until you’re absolutely and utterly exhausted and then you breathe out, “This is your audition song, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” she says then. Her breath is closer to your face then you’d expected. You don’t step backwards, though.

“What does it mean?” you whisper. “ _Una somma di piccolo cose_  - what does that mean?”

Her voice is a little hoarse when she says, “It means _a sum of small things_.” You can feel the vibration of her voice against your bottom lip, that’s how close she’s standing to you. She’s silent for a moment, then she adds, “It means that every small thing counts, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

There’s nothing but darkness around you, and then Camila’s lips brush against yours, almost accidentally, and it’s like you can taste the very meaning of her words on her mouth—

You pull back abruptly. “I’m not into girls.”

Her exhale hitches against your bottom lip as she breathes out, “I’m not into you.”

—and then she pulls on your hips and kisses you again.


	2. the first year | january - june

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> This is a long chapter. Like, 12,435 words long. :) Enjoy!
> 
> -Blake

There’s a moment of complete darkness in the London Royal Opera House, right before the second part of the performance begins. You can’t help but close your eyes. It’s almost automatic; the way the darkness shuts in on you, the way your senses amplify, even when you’re not dancing, even when you’re just a member of the audience like everyone else.

There’s a moment of complete darkness and like so often, your thoughts spin right to the memory, outside of your control – her mouth hot on yours, a little uncertain but bold enough to make you part your lips, enough to make your skin heat up under the tips of her fingers, enough to make your sixteen your old self question every single thing you’ve ever felt for _anyone_ in your entire life. 

:::

**january**

:::

Keaton Stromberg may not look like your typical classical ballet dancer, but he lifts you high above his shoulders as if you don’t weigh a single ounce. January at Fonteyn means the start of the second semester, which means the start of partnering classes – and it looks like Keaton is your lucky guy for the rest of the year.  

He doesn’t seem entirely horrible.

“I like the whole military approach that your mom has decided on,” he whispers with a grin during your mother’s intense instructions at the beginning of the very first class. “Clara Jauregui – telling it like it is. No pain, no game, right?”

You can feel the corners of your mouth curl upwards.

He grins at you. “Can I have this dance from you, Jauregui Junior?”

You’re so used to boys with clammy hands who don’t know the first thing about partnering, so you’re a little surprised when Keaton seems to know exactly what he’s doing, his control absolutely perfect, always making sure he’s right ahead of your every move, actually _leading_ you.

When he lifts you up over his head and the entire class stares at the both of you, you silently thank your mother for making him your partner.

“Not bad, Junior,” he says with a smile when he lowers you to the ground. “I think we’re going to have a lovely six months together.”

There’s something about his blue eyes and his unruly hair and the way he doesn’t tiptoe around you like most people that has got you smiling in his face.

“Should we try and sneak out later to get lunch in the city?” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Keaton holds out his fist to you. “I like the way you think, Junior.”

You roll your eyes at the stupid nickname he seems to have decided on already, but you bump his fist with yours anyway. It’s January – it’s time you finally start making some friends.    

//

“You know,” Normani says, completely out of the blue. “I don’t think you should have sex with him.”

Your head shifts up in less than a second. “ _Excuse me_?”

She’s on the other side of your bedroom, sitting up against the headboard of her bed, heavy biology books open on her lap. She doesn’t even look up from her notes, just rolls her eyes at your sudden outburst.

“Your boyfriend,” she says, “Brad or whatever his name is – I don’t think you should have sex with him.”

“What the fuck,” you stammer. “What are you talking about? How do you even—”

Normani gives you a pointed look. “You’re not exactly quiet when you talk to that friend of yours on Skype. I can basically overhear your entire conversation, even with my girl Beyoncé blasting in my ears.”

You’re completely taken aback by it. You and Normani don’t really talk. You actually try to spend as less time in your bedroom together as you can, only acknowledging each other when you walk in and out of the dorm. The fact that she apparently knows exactly what you’ve been talking about with Lucy throws you off.

“But—” you sputter. “Wait – what did you say?”

Again, she doesn’t look up from her notes, just sighs heavily _._ “I’m just saying that you don’t have to have sex with a guy if you don’t want to. You don’t owe anyone anything, including your boyfriend.” 

There’s a hot feeling in the center of your chest that slowly intensifies, the longer you let Normani’s words ring in your ears.

“So, what?” you snap then. “Just because you hear me say _one thing_ over Skype, you think you suddenly know me or something? For the record, Brad and I are definitely going to have sex – because I _do_ want to.”

She shrugs. “It always sounds like you’re not really into him.”  

Your anger spikes, as you lash out, “You don’t know the first thing about me, all right? So fuck off being an invasive bitch.”

Normani stares at you. You feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze, not really knowing what to do or say. Then, she says, “ _For the record,_ it’s not going to feel good if you have sex with someone that you’re not into, especially not the first time. Take that from me. It’s probably going to make you feel panicked and insecure and possibly hurt – and you shouldn’t do that to yourself. That’s not what it’s supposed to be like.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to sound as offensive as you can when you cut out, “So what – you’re like an expert in the field or something?”

“I know enough.”

You feel irrationally angry. What the fuck is she even talking about?

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you snap. “But I _am_ into Brad.”

She nods. “Ok. Sure. Whatever, Lauren. I don’t even know why I’m trying.” She pauses for a moment, and then she adds, “But just so you know, it’s stupid and childish to do things just because you feel like you _have_ to. You should do things because you _want_ to.” She picks her biology books up and gets to her feet. “But I guess I’ll fuck off being an invasive bitch now.”

She walks out of the room before you can call her back.

So much for making new friends.

//

The next weekend, Brad’s parents are out of town and he asks if you want to stay over.

You tell yourself that it’s the only logical thing to do.

It’s not exactly bad and it’s not exactly good. It is over pretty quickly and it feels less spectacular than you thought it would. As you lie naked under Brad’s faded _New York Yankees_ sheets, staring up at the ceiling, while he’s already asleep next to you, you can’t help but feel like you’re not really inside your own body. It’s almost like it happened to someone else.

You curse Normani, though, because she doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s talking about. It didn’t make you feel panicked or insecure or hurt. It didn’t really make you feel anything, so you don’t even understand what the big deal is.

It’s just a thing that happened. It’s a thing that happens to all sorts of girls all over the world. You’re sixteen years old and you just had sex for the first time and that’s all there is to it. None of that analytical bullshit your roommate was trying to shove down your throat.

You didn’t even really _feel_ anything to analyze.

If anything, you’re just happy that you managed to get through it without thinking about Camila kissing you.  

//

Nothing but darkness.

Darkness and heat. Her fingers on the bare skin of your neck. Her mouth hot and soft on yours. Your entire body simmering from the inside out, making you shiver hard. Tension pulsing through your muscles, through your veins, through the very cells of your being. Your thoughts spinning out of control on the feeling of her hips under your hands. Gasping when she presses you back until you stumble against the mirror. Her body against yours, making it so hard for you to breathe that you don’t think you’re ever going to learn how to do it again.

It’s a one-time thing. Over before it really even started.

You tell yourself you were feeling tired and frustrated because Lucy had left – and so you let it happen. Her lips hot on yours and your hands tangling in her hair and her body pressing up close against you, making you shiver all over—

You have a boyfriend.

It instantly snaps you back to reality, back to fear, back to every single stinging thought that keeps you up at night when you are trying not to choke on your own panic. 

—you push her away and you lash out harder at her than you ever have before.

_what the fuck what are you doing why the fuck are you kissing me I have fucking boyfriend fuck off fuck off fuck off keep your fucking hands off me I’m not a lesbian_

Silence. Panic. Darkness.

—your voice again, harsh and rough, forcing your words right down her throat so she doesn’t ever try to do anything like that to you, ever again.  

_I fucking told you I’m not into girls you fucking bitch_

It’s a one-time thing. Over before it really even started.

//

You don’t think about it.

Not during the first partnering class when you watch Austin Mahone making her spin on the tip of her pointe shoe. Not when you talk to Lucy on Skype late at night and tears you don’t want your best friend to see are burning behind your eyes. Not when you lose your virginity to Bradley Simpson– who is a boy, a boy you’re very much into, a boy that you’re so very into that you’ll have sex with him over anything else.

You try to remember if your first kiss with Brad made you shiver.

(It didn’t.)

:::

**february**

:::

Here’s something you’ve learned from being a ballet dancer for almost your entire life– the more you do something, the easier it gets.

It works in the case of having sex with Bradley Simpson.

It does _not_ work in the case of having to spend entire days together with Camila Cabello in ballet studios and theatres, while you’re both half naked and sweaty and angry and tense and not talking to each other. It does _not_ work in the case of convincing yourself that you’re fine.

//

“Good morning, Junior.”

You’re on the floor in the corner of the studio, stretching, when Keaton drops down next to you with a cheerful smile. “Another wonderful day for another wonderful rehearsal with my favorite partner.”

“Hey…” you mumble, your voice impossibly hoarse and rough.

Keaton frowns right away. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.”

Your exhale is shaky. You run the back of your hand over your forehead, wiping the feverish sweat from your temples onto the fabric of your tights, trying to ignore the heavy shivers that are running down your back. _Just focus._ You’re ok. Nothing is going on. You’re ok. _Just focus._

You shiver again. Hard. Keaton’s hand lands on your shoulder. Your skin burns up painfully under his fingers.

“Lauren,” His voice is laced with concern. “You’re not looking too good. You’re really pale and—”

He moves forward, taking your face between his hands, trying to make you look up at him. “Jesus – you’re all sweaty…”

“I’m ok,” you breathe out. “I just – I didn’t sleep well, but I’m good. Let’s just start and—”

Your vision blurs. Black spots are dancing in front of your eyes. Your hands are clammy, but your entire body feels ice cold. Your sight starts to tilt and you get the strangest sensation that you’re falling—

“ _Fuck_ – _Mrs. Jauregui_!”

All you see is the blue of Keaton’s eyes – and then you pass out.  

//

You wake up with laughter reaching your ears. The blanket around you feels way too hot and your throat is so dry that it hurts. You try to shift, to roll over in your bed, ignoring the way your muscles cramp up.  

More laughter. 

You open your sticky eyes while you push your heated blanket off your chest. Your vision clears and you catch sight of Keaton and Normani, sitting up against the headboard of Normani’s bed together, grinning at some show they’re watching on Normani’s laptop.

You cough and Keaton’s gaze shifts over to you right away.

“Junior!” He jumps off the bed, walking over in your direction. “How’re you feeling? You took a pretty hard hit to the floor…” Without waiting for your response he puts his hand against your temple. “Damn, I think you still have a fever… Can I get you anything?”

Your mind is spinning.

“W-water,” you choke out.

“Right,” Keaton says, hurrying over to the bathroom. He comes back with a large glass. “Come on – sit up straight.”

You glare at him. It feels like you’ve been dancing non-stop for twelve hours in a row – that’s how much your muscles are hurting. Keaton gives you a soft smile, before simply taking the liberty to drag you up until you’re in a seated position, half leaning against him to steady yourself.

“Drink.”

You drink the entire glass of water and then another one right after. You sigh long and hard, before you’re finally able to breathe out, “What happened? What are you doing here?”

“You passed out,” Keaton says. “Way to almost give me a heart attack. It was damn intense – you should have seen your mother’s face. I don’t know what you’ve been doing for the past few weeks, but getting your eight hours of sleep a night probably hasn’t been on the list by the looks of it.”

You’re still a little disoriented. “But – what – how come you’re here?”

“I put you to bed,” he says, before adding with a grin, “I’ll have you know that lifting you during choreography is a hell of a lot easier than having to carry you up to the fourth floor like a sack of potatoes, Junior.”

A rough chuckle escapes your lips – you can’t help it. This kid is ridiculous.

“So, what,” you mumble, gaze turning over to Normani. “You’ve just been watching movies here the whole time?”

Normani doesn’t bother to answer, but Keaton grins.

“Well, I didn’t really want to leave you alone, so I skipped class – I mean, what’s a partnering class without a partner, right?” He smiles. “I tried to read one of those books that you’ve got on your desk, but _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and I are not very compatible. So when Mani came back, she tried to kick me out initially, but then I bribed her with my Netflix account – and now we’re on our fourth episode of _Modern Family._ ”  

_Mani?_

Keaton pats your back before you can even say anything. “Want to join in on the fun from your sickbed?”

You look over at Normani. She’s got an unreadable expression on her face. But then she shrugs and you can hear yourself say, “Sure.”

//

You stay in bed for three full days.

Thankfully, your fever goes down pretty quickly. You also actually manage to get some sleep for a change. You spend most of your hours either watching movies on Keaton’s Netflix account or texting Lucy, finally not having to worry about the time difference so much. Brad wants to visit because it’s Valentine’s Day, but you shoot him down immediately, not really wanting to see your boyfriend while you’re dressed in pajamas that you wore when you were thirteen. Your mother comes in to check on you multiple times a day, though. She seems most concerned about you missing classes, but there’s some softness to her visits as well. From time to time, she strokes her fingers through your hair while she mumbles _oh, mija_ several times, kissing your temple – and you _know_ she wants you to be ok. So you try to be. You try to take your time to get better.

Not dancing is tough, though, especially since your muscles are pretty much pulsing to move, with all these hours that you have to stay in bed. It’s almost unbearable, actually.

On the third night, you crack.

Normani is already fast asleep, because it’s past midnight, but you have been sleeping all afternoon, so now you are just dying to _move_.

You slip into navy shorts and a black tank top and before you can talk yourself out of it again, you grab your pointe shoes and make your way down to the studios, ready to dance again, ready for the music and the focus and the stretch in your feet and the turn out of your knees—

You pull the door open without thinking about it, not even really considering the possibility, because it’s in the _middle of the night_ —

But, of course, she’s there.

You should have known.

Everything registers at the same time; the spin in her turns, the dynamic of her _glissades,_ the extensive piano melodies, her legs flexed to perfection in her _arabesque penchée_ , the lines of her arms, her hair messy and wild and her eyes flashing with nothing but energy.

She’s the very embodiment of femininity—

—and you weren’t ready to see it again.

For a moment, you’re completely paralyzed, standing in the half open door, digging your fingernails into your thigh. Then, you spin around, letting the door fall closed behind you, while you hurry to get away, trying to walk faster than your racing heart—

“ _Wait_.” 

You’re almost at the end of the corridor, already, stopping dead in your tracks she calls out after you.

“Lauren.”

You turn around. She’s standing in the door to the studio, panting. There’s something in her eyes which you don’t really understand, and then Camila says, “Come rehearse together with me?”

//

“How are you feeling?”

You push a little harder, stretching into your leg on the barre. You try not to look at Camila too much. “I’m all right. Better.”

She shifts a little restlessly. “Do you think you can come to class again next week?”

You nod.

There is so much tension between you that you don’t even know where to look. You try to focus on the music, try to block out your nervous thoughts. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You haven’t been alone with her in a month and a half. But still, you tell yourself, there is absolutely no reason for you to be feeling like this.

“Why are you here?” you ask then. “It’s pretty late already.”

Camila shrugs. “It’s kind of busy at home and I don’t really have any space to rehearse.”

You nod, not really wanting to ask any further questions. It’s none of your business, anyway, and you’re pretty sure it’s best for both of you if you know as less as possible about Camila’s personal life.

After a moment, Camila says, with a small hint of uncertainty to her voice, “So – what – what happened exactly when you… uh – passed out, I guess.”

Your voice is a little hoarse when you breathe out, “I don’t really know. I think I was just really stressed and I hadn’t really been sleeping too well, so…”

You trail off and Camila nods, her exhale kind of heavy. For a moment, neither of you says anything, and then, she blurts out, a little sudden, a little rushed, “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

Your heart shoots up in your throat at the way she just says it _out loud_ , acknowledging the reality of it. Your mind clouds and the familiar panicked heat starts to spread through your chest right away. You don’t know what to say, you don’t know where to keep your gaze, you don’t even know what is happening to you, why you are even reacting to her words in such an intense way.

“We were both there,” you mumble then, speaking before you’ve fully considered your words.

Camila stares at you and it burns in your throat, because you didn’t mean to admit that you were also – that you were both—

“It didn’t mean anything,” Camila says then.

“Right.” You give her a short nod. “It didn’t.”

Silence again. You still have your leg up high on the barre and she’s still shifting her weight from one foot to the other restlessly. And then she says, “Maybe we can just forget about it and get back to dancing.”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Let’s forget about it.” Your eyes fall to her lips for the briefest of moments, before you quickly pull your leg back from the barre. “You’re right, let’s just focus on ballet. You help me out with contemporary and I help you out with classical, just like before – and that’s it.”

Camila nods. “Ok.”

“Ok,” you breathe out.

//

It takes you almost two weeks, before you finally allow yourself to brush your fingers over her elbow when you correct her _port de bras._

Soft and warm – you’d forgotten the intensity of touching her skin. 

:::

**march**

:::

March means spring break – and as soon as you’re back in Barcelona, it’s like you never even left.

Lying down on Lucy’s bed together, while you drink lemonade and watch music videos on YouTube makes you the happiest you’ve been in months. It feels so normal. So good. For two entire weeks you don’t have to think about ballet or about performances or about Brad or Camila or _anything_ related to Fonteyn and New York.

It’s just you and Lucy, like it’s always been.

You spend your days shopping at your favorite stores in the old city center, eating _patatas bravas_ in the harbor, and hanging out on the beach, drinking smoothies and giggling at the guys passing you by. Your heart keeps fluttering, getting stuck on Lucy’s smile and her eyes and her confidence and her mind and her _everything_. You’re so fucking happy to be reunited with your best friend again. You don’t think you ever want to go back to New York again.

“So,” Lucy says when you’re up in her room on Friday evening getting ready to go see some of your old friends for dinner. “I think it’s time you finally give me some details, Lo.”

You’re standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide which top you should wear, so you’re a little unfocused. “Hm? What?”

“Brad,” Lucy says then. “Tell me what it’s like.”

You shift, still not really catching on. “Tell you what what’s like?”

“ _Sex,_ ” Lucy says then which pretty much makes you spin around instantly.

You feel heated right away. “ _Oh_ – well, what do you—” You swallow hard. “What do want me to say?”

Lucy smiles. “Come on, Lo. Just give me some details, I don’t know. What’s it like? Are you having fun? Is it good?”

“It’s good,” you mumble, nodding slowly. “It’s – yeah – I mean, it’s all right.”

At that, Lucy’s eyebrows slowly rise. “ _All right_?”

You avoid her eyes, staring at the floor instead, while pushing your hands in the pockets of your shorts. “Yeah, sure. It’s… ok. Brad’s really – well, it’s good. Great.”

You can feel yourself blushing, which is ridiculous because Lucy is your best friend and you can talk to her about _anything_. She is looking you up and down intently, slight frown on her face as if she’s thinking hard about something. Then, she says, “Does he make you come?”

“ _What_ —” you spit out, eyes going wide at the bluntness of her question.

At that, Lucy frowns even harder. “Babe, what’s up with you? We always talk about this kind of stuff – what’s the big deal? I’m just curious.”

“No, no, it’s ok,” you sputter out quickly. “I know – it’s… I just… I don’t know. It makes me feel weird for some reason. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I’m just tired and jet lagged, I guess…”

Lucy gives you a look, because you’ve already been here for a week, so you obviously can’t be _that_ jet lagged, but she doesn’t mention it. Right when you turn around to face the mirror again, she says, “So, does he? Make you come, I mean.”

You swallow hard. “Well – we don’t get to see each other that often, with ballet and stuff – and, I mean… Well, I don’t know, not really.”

“Not really?” Lucy falls back on the bed. “Lo, it’s either yes or—”

“ _No_ ,” you snap, cutting her off. “No, he doesn’t make me – we don’t – but it’s ok. I mean, I don’t even really care, anyway.”’

Lucy is silent for a moment. Then, she rolls over and grabs your wrist, pulling you up on the bed with her. You try to avoid her eyes, but she makes you sit right next to her and hold your hands until you can’t help but sigh and lift your gaze to her eyes.

“Ok,” she says. “Let’s talk about this for a moment, babe.” You bite your lip and Lucy says, “So, what happens usually?”

“What do you mean what happens—” you bite out, a little harsher than you intended. “We just have sex. We take our clothes off and then we have sex, Luce. That’s what happens.”

“Yeah, but, like, how does it happen? Does he kiss you a lot? Or touch you? Like, warm you up a little bit – some foreplay. Does he ever go down on—”

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” you snap, before she can finish her sentence. “I know what foreplay is!”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, a little taken aback by your sudden outburst. You stare down at your lap, breathing a little heavily, before mumbling, “Anyway – he doesn’t really do that, but I don’t think I’d want it anyway. I think that kind of stuff is pretty overrated.”

“ _Overrated_?” Lucy says. “Lo, are you kidding me – ‘that kind of stuff’ is so important. If Brad wants to make you feel good, he’s got to—”

“Can we please stop talking about this?”

Lucy’s eyes lock into yours. She bites her lip and for a moment, you swear you can see a slight blush appear on her cheekbones, and it makes you frown because you don’t really know why she’d be blushing, but then she breathes out softly, “Lauren, I know that you _know_ how good it can feel…”

The tension shifts instantly.

Your breath hitches in the back of your throat and you suddenly realize how close you and Lucy are sitting to each other on her bed, the same bed where you—

“That didn’t count,” you breathe out. “That’s just – we were just… we didn’t even know what we were doing. We were just messing around.”

“I know,” Lucy says. “I know it’s not exactly the same and I know you think that it didn’t count, but I’m just saying…” Her voice is a little throaty when she adds, “… if I can make you come, Brad should be able to as well.”

You can’t stop it. In less than a second your mind closes in on the memory. Lucy’s lips, kissing softly down your neck, her fingers tracing down your stomach as you giggle in her shoulder, before you gasp out, eyes falling shut as her fingers reach down and—

“For the fucking millionth time,” you snap. “None of that meant anything. It doesn’t count and I don’t know why you’re even bringing it up, because it didn’t— and I’m not— _I’m not a fucking dyke—_ ”    

“Woah,” Lucy says. “Lo—”

“I’m not into girls,” you snap. “I’m _not_. I’m into Brad and _you_ don’t get to tell me how to have sex with him just because you have more experience or whatever—”

“Babe—”

It rips right through you.

“Stop calling me that!” You’re not able to hold your anger in any longer. “Seriously, Lucy – fucking cut it out. Girls are not supposed to call each other that all the damn time, so just _stop_ ok? Just fucking stop.” Your voice cracks. “Please – just – just, I really don’t want to talk about it anymore… I don’t want to fight and…”

You choke on your own breath and Lucy pulls you into her right away, stroking through your hair and holding you close. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I love you, ok? You’re my best friend – I’m just trying to…”

She trails off, not knowing what to say.

You don’t know what to say either.

“I love you,” Lucy says again.

She is the most important person in your entire life and you’ve told her you love her hundreds of times before – and, yet, for some reason, it suddenly feels weird to say it back.

:::

**april**

:::

Camila doesn’t show up to class for the entire first week.

You try not to think about it too much, coming to the conclusion that she’s probably just ill, or something. For the most part, you manage to distract yourself. There’s another showcase performance coming up, which you and Keaton both need to prepare for, because you have an important _pas de deux_ in it. You start to spend the majority of your time together, initially just to dance or study together, but then also because you like hanging out with Keaton. He’s funny and compassionate and he’s _uncomplicated_ – which is nice for a change.

The only problem is that Brad is starting to get annoyed.

After your conversation with Lucy, things have not been all that great between you and your boyfriend. Every single thing that Brad does is suddenly getting on your nerves – the way he kisses you in public, the way he wraps his arm around you, the way he keeps waking you up in the middle of the night to make out – it’s all become fucking annoying.

Then, to make things worse, Brad decides that he wants to come along to your rehearsals.

“Come on,” you tell him, trying to talk him out of it. “There’s really nothing for you to do at Fonteyn. I just have to dance the whole time and I won’t even be able to really talk to you, so you would just end up sitting there, watching me—”

He kisses your cheek. “Babe, I love to see you dance.”

You sigh hard. “Yeah, but Keaton and I _really_ have to focus. This performance is extremely important.”

At the mention of Keaton’s name, Brad frowns a little. Then he shrugs. “I just want to spend some time with my girlfriend, why are you being so difficult about it?”

“That’s the thing,” you try to tell him. “I won’t be able to spend time with you, because I’ll be—”

He doesn’t want to hear it, so before you know what is happening, you find yourself in a dance studio, trying to perfect a difficult lift with Keaton, while Brad is sitting on the floor against the mirror, watching the two of you with a sour face.

After half an hour, it’s taking every fiber of self-control not to strangle your boyfriend right on the very spot.

“All right,” Keaton says, pulling you close into him once again. “We’re going to have to use the momentum of your turn to find the leverage for the lift, so I think you’re just going to have to come at me really hard—”

Brad chuckles.

There’s a sharp sting of annoyance in the center of your chest, but you force yourself to ignore it.

“Right,” you tell Keaton. “Ok, let’s just try it from my _fouetté en tournant_. Five, six, seven…”

You push yourself into the turn, before connecting your body with Keaton’s to move into the lift and—      

“Do you really have to touch her like that?”

“ _Brad,_ ” you snap, startled out of the choreography again.

Keaton sighs hard, before turning to Brad. “Sorry, did you say anything?”

Brad gives him a look. “That’s my girl you’re dancing with. You know that, right? She’s taken, so don’t go rubbing your hands all over her thighs like that—”

“Fucking hell,” you snap. “Can you leave?”

Silence.

Then Brad says, “We’re waiting, man.”

You explode in less than a second.

“No, Brad, _you_ leave!” you lash out and Brad’s eyes go wide.

“What—” he stammers. “Babe, why?”

“ _Because_ ,” you yell, “I’m trying to fucking concentrate here and you being a dick about everything is not helping!”

He stares at you hard, before getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket off the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and then walks over to the door. Right before he pulls it open, he turns to Keaton.

“Stay away from my girl—”

“Brad, get the fuck out!” you scream.

His eyes narrow at you. Something shifts across his face, something you’ve never seen before. You prepare yourself for the worst, prepare yourself for his outburst. But Brad doesn’t respond to you.

Instead, he turns to Keaton again. “One more thing, man – is she putting out for you? Because I’m not getting any lately.”

He slams the door closed, right before Keaton screams after him, “ _Fuck off_!”

You’re completely paralyzed, Brad’s words echoing in your mind. There’s an ice cold feeling in the center of your chest and a low drumming in your ears as you hear his words over and over again. They sting painfully.

“Damn it,” Keaton swears next to you. “What a fucking dick.”

You’re trembling lightly.

“Lauren,” Keaton says, sudden edge of worry to his voice. “Don’t listen to him, ok? It’s fucking disrespectful to say something like that.”

He puts his hands on your shoulders, until you look up at him.

“Lo,” he says softly. “You’re absolutely fantastic. You don’t deserve to be treated like that for even one second. He was way out of line. Come here.”

You let yourself fall into him for a moment, before realizing with a shock that between Lucy and Brad and Camila, Keaton is pretty much the only person in your life at the moment that does not make your entire body tense with panic in one way or another.

//

Brad dumps you over the phone.

Even though you were thinking about breaking up with him too, it still stings – especially since he doesn’t really give you any explanation, just a half-hearted _sorry, this isn’t working for me anymore_ and nothing else.

When you hang up, you fall back onto your bed as you try to blink your tears away.

“Are you ok?” Normani says after a moment.

You look side-ways at your roommate, who is sitting on her bed on the other side of the room. “Brad just broke up with me.”

Your voice sounds strangled. Normani stares at you. She’s silent for a really long time. Then, she pats the empty space next to her, as she says, “Want to watch the new _Modern Family_ episode?”

She doesn’t push you away when you fall into her side a little bit. She doesn’t hug you or anything. But she also doesn’t push you away.

//

“Can you come partner me for a moment?”

Camila is on the other end of the studio. She asks it so softly that you almost don’t hear it over the music. You’re also not sure you actually heard her correctly, so you stammer out, “W-what?”

She shifts. “I’ve got to – well, I can’t really get my balance right when I’m all by myself, so I thought, I don’t know – maybe you could just quickly partner me right now. Just for five minutes or so.”

“Oh.” You’re a little taken aback, but you can’t think of any reason why you should say no to her – even _you_ know that the sudden panic in your chest is a little irrational – so you make your way over. “Ok – sure… Uh – how do you want me?”

Right when you say it, Camila’s eyes lock right into yours and you can feel your cheeks burn up at the unintended innuendo. _Fuck._

“I mean—” you stutter out. “Where do you – uh – which position do you want me in?”

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

You feel close to passing out from the way your heart is beating against your ribs and you silently curse yourself for being so goddamn—

“Uh,” Camila says, with the faintest tint of red on her cheekbones. “Fifth, please.”

She quickly starts talking you through the choreography, before the moment can take a further turn for the worse. You try to listen but it’s a little difficult to concentrate because you’re suddenly in her space again and you haven’t been physically close to her like this in _months._ For the most part, you’ve been staying to your own sides of the studio, even when giving the other instructions. You can’t have the softness of her skin throw you out of your focus all the damn time.

“… you think you got it?”

You snap out of your thoughts. You didn’t really listen, but you figure you’ll catch up, so you quickly mumble, “Ok, yeah. I got it.”

Your mind is still a little fuzzy with embarrassment, but before you know what is happening Camila’s hand is in yours – and then you’re dancing.

Initially, she takes the lead, mostly using you as a way to steady herself rather than as a dance partner. You can’t help but follow her moves, still a little hesitant, still a little unfocused. But then the music is starting to beat in your veins and your focus automatically snaps into place. Before you know what is happening, your body starts acting of its own accord, picking up on the choreography, pulsing in response to Camila’s energy and—

—you pull her into you abruptly, your physique stronger than you mind as you actually _take_ the lead.

For a second, her eyes lock right into yours and the moment sort of stills.

And then she easily submits and lets herself fall into you, while your hand presses into her waist, keeping her right where you want her, before making her spin on the tip of her pointe shoe. On her seventh pirouette, Camila suddenly stumbles and falls to the flat of her shoes.

“Wow,” she breathes out. “ _Wow._ ”

You’re a little breathless. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No,” she says, “No – it’s just—” Surprise falls over her features as she looks at you. “You’re really good at that – like, _really_ good. With Austin, I always have to do everything myself.”

You softly smile. “That’s the worst, isn’t it? Boys who can’t lead.”

Camila smiles. “Tell me about it.”

For a moment, you’re both just smiling at each other, and then the reality of the situation crashes in on you and you quickly step back again, panic taking over as you quickly try to create more distance between your bodies.

“Uh – you got it now?” you mumble, not waiting for her response, before adding, “Because I kind of have to get back to my own solo.”

Camila stares at you.

Then, she says, “Ok – yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you mumble, before spinning around and moving to the other side of the studio again.

You try not to think about the feeling of her hand in yours or the closeness of her face or the fact that she just genuinely made you smile even though you and Camila Cabello don’t do that.

You just don’t do that.

//

It becomes the new dancing in the dark. It’s not as addictive and it doesn’t nearly set your heart on fire as much, but it’s the closest you can allow yourself to let go of your inhibitions when the two of you are together. You keep up the pretense that you’re just helping her out because Austin Mahone is a lousy partner and she needs to be prepared when she does get paired up with a proper ballet dancer.

You also keep up the pretense that you don’t realize that sometimes you keep holding on to her body for a couple of seconds too long.

:::

**may**

:::

There are dark circles under Camila’s eyes that you don’t dare to ask about. She’s late more often than not. Sometimes she walks out halfway during classes – and your mother doesn’t even comment on it.

“Why don’t you just ask her about it?” Lucy says.

You fall back into the pillows of your bed. “We’re not exactly friends, Luce. We just rehearse together sometimes.”

She gives you a look. “It’s just a question, right?”

You nod. “Yeah – I know.”

You don’t ask Camila about it, though.

//

“Why does Camila keep missing class?”

Your mother is sitting right across from you in the restaurant. Taylor and Chris are playing some sort of loud and messy truth or dare game to your left, which causes your dad to constantly snap at them between his phone calls – and your mother is just sighing at everything and everyone around her, so you figure your question won’t make much of a difference.

She frowns. “What?”

“Camila keeps missing class,” you repeat. “What’s up with that?”

Your mother gives you a pointed look. “That, Lauren, is none of your concern.”

“But why do you let her, though?” you push. “She’s the only one who gets away with it—”

Your mother purses her lips and thinks for a moment. She’s silent for so long that you don’t think she’s going to answer, so you’re already reaching for your phone to distract yourself again, but then your mother’s expression softens a little and she says, “Mija – it won’t hurt to talk to her once in a while. God knows that girl could use it.”

You frown hard. “Why does she—”

“Not everyone at Fonteyn grows up like you did, mija,” your mother says. “That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

End of discussion – and you still don’t know a thing.

//

The days quickly become hot – the early summer sun blazing through the streets, the dorms, the studios.

It’s messing with your head.

Camila slowly runs her gaze over the line of your neck and for once, you let her stare at you, biting down on your lip as you feel her eyes go right over your collarbone and further down. Her fingers are hot on your hips, burning patterns into your skin while you spin in front of her. Keaton is ill. You haven’t seen Brad in a month. It’s Saturday and you’ve got nothing else to but practice your _pas de deux_ with the only other person in this entire school that knows how to dance with you. 

You’re both panting lightly as you go over the movement again, and then again, and then again, because you keep getting stuck on the heat in her eyes and the red of her lips and the strands of hair that keep falling loose from her messy bun. You come to a halt in front of her, breathless and fuzzy, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that she’s staring at your mouth, not even bothering to pretend that she isn’t.

You breathe out, “I’m going to take my top off. It’s really hot in here.”

She nods, not saying anything.

You pull on the hem of your shirt, before dragging it up. Her eyes fall down to the fabric of your black sports bra and you swallow hard. As soon as she starts to run her hands freely over your skin, the ballet studio feels like the very core of the sun.

You dance and you dance and you dance, and then you pull off your shorts without saying anything other than, “Aren’t you hot?”

Camila nods, but doesn’t move to do anything about it. She just stares at you. She’s wearing a black leotard and there’s only about a feet between you. 

She catches you staring at the fabric, and then she breathes out, “I’m not wearing a bra.”

The moment tenses – and it feels like all the oxygen gets sucked right out of the room, right out of your lungs, right out of your blood.

You’re not able to say anything, so eventually just Camila says, “From the top again?”

Any time your fingers brush over her ribs, your mind spins out of control. You’re not able to stop thinking about it for even a single second.

//

You and Camila stop talking to each other almost entirely.

The only thing you do is dance.

//

“Someone is a little unfocused this morning,” Keaton says with a grin on his face during your morning partner class when you’ve got your eyes stuck on Camila and Austin to see whether or not Austin is able to spin Camila around as quickly as you did last night.

“Hm?”

Keaton’s smile only widens. “You see,” he mumbles, “I can’t really decide if you’re checking out our competition or if you are _checking out_ our competition.”

Your head snaps up. “What the fuck are you talking about, Stromberg?” Keaton gives you a look and you don’t even give him a chance to explain himself, because you quickly ramble on. “It’s just so fucking hot in these studios the whole damn time. Why can’t they turn the air conditioning up? I’m not able to fucking concentrate on anything these days.”

Keaton smiles. “Clearly.” 

//

The next time you run into Camila in the evening, you take your shirt and shorts off as soon as you step over the door of the studio. You don’t say anything. You just dance in your underwear the entire time, pressing yourself up to her closer than you have before, making her breath visibly catch in her throat when you show her once again how much better you are at partnering than Austin Mahone.

“I don’t understand why you keep wearing these…” you mumble at some point, tugging your fingers under the shoulder strap of her leotard for a second. “It’s like a fucking sauna in here.”

Camila doesn’t say anything, just pulls you harder against her.

Again, she doesn’t take it off, and the reason why is making your head spin, especially with her pressed up so closely against you.

//

You don’t know how it happens. One moment you’re still spinning into your turn and then, you suddenly catch Camila’s gaze and there is something in her eyes which rips right through your reservations, right through your panic, right through your nerves to something solid inside your chest – something hot and excited and pulsing.

She pulls back from you and your heartbeat is racing in your ears. You are barely even breathing when you watch Camila walk over to the door, stalling, as her hand falls on the light switch, grazing her fingers over it.

For a moment she just stares back at you, then her eyes darken and she curls her hand under the hem of her leotard, pulling it down the very second she flips the lights off. 

Complete darkness. You don’t dare to say anything.

It’s just like before – the music, the black studio, the positioning of your body, always in relation to hers – it’s just like before, except it’s not, because when your fingers connect with the bare skin of her stomach, Camila breathes out, “It was kind of hot in here, so I had to do something about it…”

Complete darkness and yet, in the middle of it, you are burning and burning and burning and burning – until even your soul is nothing but ashes.   

:::

**june**

:::

Any time you catch sight of Camila’s eyes during your group classes, you feel like everyone can see it on your face – the fact that you danced with her in the dark while she was wearing nothing but her panties.

The thought alone makes you go absolutely insane.

You don’t know what to do.

It’s like you were drunk or high or completely intoxicated in any other sort of way when it happened, because you’re not able to register the reality of it. It’s all a blur – just flashes of heat and skin and your fingers getting tangled in her hair, your fingers barely grazing over her ribs and your mouth so close to hers that you almost—

There’s no explanation for it and no justification for it. You can’t shake it off, though.   

Your mother announces that auditions for the Fonteyn Summer School will be held at the very end of the month. You know you don’t have to audition, because your mother is running the damn thing, of course – but you can tell from everyone else’s reaction that it’s a pretty big deal to them.

For a second, Camila looks at you and you wonder if you’ll be spending the summer together as well—

Her hand on your thigh, her breath against your shoulder, heavy goosebumps on your skin as her fingers press into your hips while you steady her, making sure you’re still dancing and not just _touching_ —

“Lauren.”

You look up. Your mother is staring at you intently.

“What?”

She purses her lips at your lack of proper attitude, before she says, “Your solo. Any time now.”

“Right,” you mumble, getting to the front of the class.

You don’t know how you get through it. You’re thinking about one thing and one thing only, and you’re pretty sure that everyone can see it on your face.

//

“So…” you mumble. “Something happened.”

Lucy’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Even through the slightly horrible video quality you can see her spiked interest.

“Ok,” she says, giving you time.

“Yeah – um, so…” You swallow hard. “The thing is—”

You stare at your best friend’s face; the dark of her eyes, the beautiful smile curling around her lips; the slight frown in her eyebrows. You absentmindedly run your finger over the screen of your phone, making the Skype options light up.

“Are you ok?” Lucy says. “You know you can tell me anything, babe.” She bites her lip immediately, clearly self-conscious about her use of the affectionate term. “Sorry – I didn’t—”

“That’s ok,” you breathe out quickly, before adding with a slight smile, “It’s ok, babe.”

Lucy smiles at you. “Ok.”

“Ok.”

You know you’re stalling, when Lucy says, “You still want to tell me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s not really a big deal or anything, but I… I…” Your throat goes dry. You run your finger over the screen again. “Luce, I think… Well, there’s this—”

Before you can stop yourself, there’s a rush of ice cold panic in your chest and you press on the red _end call_ button almost as a reflex. Her face disappears in less than a second. You stare your phone. After a moment, you text Lucy, _Sorry, Skype shut down all of a sudden. Something about updates. Talk to you later? I’ve got ballet class soon._

You try to ignore the way your heartbeat is pounding in your ears.

//

For most of the month, you and Camila don’t get together in the studio, anymore. You’re so busy with wrapping up the school year that you actually don’t even have time to think about it. Besides, you’ve decided to pour all your attention into your new project that is Keaton and Normani – it provides a nice distraction from whatever happened between you and Camila.

“So,” you say to Normani halfway through the month. “Keaton is a pretty great guy, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t look away from her laptop.

“He’s really funny, right?” you press. “And he’s good looking, too.”

Normani rolls her eyes. “I don’t really feel like listening to your obsessive monologue about your latest crush, ok?”

Your eyes go wide, “ _No_ – not for me – _I_ don’t like Keaton!”

At that, Normani frowns, taking a moment to think about it. Then her eyes go wide as your intention dawns on her. “Oh, hell to the no.”

“Normani…” you try. “Why not? You’d make such a cute couple.”

Normani stares at you. “Not a chance in hell.”

So much for a distracting project…

//  

“So,” you tell Keaton, a couple of days later, while you’re sitting on the grass in the courtyard during break. “Normani is cute, don’t you think?”

Keaton nods right away. “Yeah, she’s beautiful.”

You’re a little taken aback by his honest response. After your conversation with Normani, you were expecting you’d have to go back and forth a lot more, before he’d admit to it. But this is even better.

“Right.” You smile. “So, when are you going to ask her out?”

At that, Keaton cracks up laughing. “What?”

You grin. “Don’t play dumb with me. When are you going to ask Normani out on a date?”

Keaton raises his eyebrows. He laughs a little more, before taking a big gulp of his orange juice and then he counters, “When are you going to ask Camila out?”

It shoots right down to your chest. In less than second your stomach clenches tight and ice cold panic rushes through your veins, while you stare at Keaton, feeling the anger and the pain and the stress rise in your chest. It’s almost crazy – the way your body reacts so physically to your anxiety. 

“ _What the fuck—_ ” you snap. “What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?”

Keaton’s expression shifts right away. “Woah,” he mumbles. “Take it easy, Junior.”

“What’s wrong with you?” you bite out. “You think I’m some fucking _lesbian_ or something?”

Keaton is staring at you like he doesn’t even know you. You can feel yourself tense up, because this happened before with Lucy, and you know that you’re overreacting, but at the same time, at the same time you can’t have people thinking that you’re, that you’re—

You almost choke on your own breath when you lash out at Keaton, “You’re sick in your mind if you think I’m some fucking _dyke_ —”

“ _Hey_ ,” he suddenly snaps, shutting you up abruptly. “Fucking hell, Lauren…”

He stares at you with wide eyes. You’re breathing heavily. Keaton moves to put his hand on your shoulder but you slap his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

He backs away, but there’s something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“Ok,” he says, “You’re going to shut up for a second before I get really fucking angry with you.” His voice is harsh and it hurts in your throat. “First of all,” he continues, “Don’t be homophobic like that. It’s not cool, Lo. The last thing we need is people adding to an already messed up system by using offensive terms like that.”

Your head is spinning.

“Second of all,” Keaton says, “What is wrong with you? You’re really overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting!” you yell out. “I’m just fucking done with everyone assuming that I’m into girls – I’m into boys, for fuck’s sake. I’m not a lesbian. I’m not some _sick_ —”

Keaton’s eyes flash at you. “Careful, Lauren—”

You choke on your tears. Then, you get up, throw your water bottle harshly against Keaton’s head, before making your way through the fence before he can call you back.

//

New York is not your city. You get lost way quicker than you thought you would. You didn’t bring anything – no cards, no phone, nothing. You just run until you can’t breathe anymore and when you look up you have no idea where you are. It makes you sick to your stomach with anxiety. You’re so tired. You’re so confused and tired and angry and insecure. You can’t deal with the fact that your body seems to want things completely outside of your control. You can’t deal with _any of it._ You just keep wandering through the busy streets, trying to look for indications as to where you are and which way you should be going. You already asked seven different people for the way back to campus, but they’ve all sent you into different directions. You’re not able to stop the tears from streaming down you face. 

Then, you see _Grishko._

You’re almost shaking with relief as your feet suddenly seem to remember the way to the subway station. You’re finally able to breathe once you’re manage to fix yourself a single ticket with some change you found in the pocket of your jacket. You bite your lip and fall back into your chair and the subway line that Camila took you on last time you were here takes you straight back to campus.

//

Keaton is sitting on your bed when you walk in.

He doesn’t say anything – just walks right up to you and wraps his arms around your body, hugging you close.

Then, he goes downstairs to get you a cup of tea and when he falls back onto your bed again, he takes your hands and says, “Lauren, there is nothing wrong with liking girls. There’s nothing wrong with liking girls and there’s nothing wrong with liking boys, and there is nothing wrong with liking both, or neither.” He stares right in your eyes. “I’m sorry I made assumptions. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I want you to know that there is nothing _wrong_ with it.”

You nod through your tears.

“No, I know…” you choke out. “I’m not – I’m not homophobic… I just – I’m really not into girls, ok? I’m really not. I swear.”

“Ok,” Keaton says.

—and then, because he’s so nice to you, even though you don’t deserve it all, because you’ve been saying the absolute worst things in the world, things you don’t even really mean, you choke out, “I’m just really confused.”

He interlaces his fingers right through yours. “I know,” he says. “That’s ok.”

You don’t know what happens, but one moment you’re still staring into Keaton’s eyes and the next moment, you breathe out, “I’m really confused about Camila…”

—and everything inside you finally shifts into some sort of truth.

//

You’ve agreed to help her out with her summer school audition – but it seems like something’s gone wrong.

She doesn’t show up for classical. She doesn’t show up for your partnering class, and not for any of your regular classes either. After you spend your entire morning unfocused and staring at the door, you do something impulsive – you sneak into your mother’s office to look up where she lives.

You don’t know why you do it, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you’re not able to talk yourself out of it, so before you know it, you’ve typed her address into Google maps and you find yourself staring at your phone while you try to navigate your way through busy Brooklyn.

It takes you almost forty minutes to find the right street, and when you’re pretty sure you’re in front of her apartment building, it takes you another twenty minutes to find the courage to ring her doorbell.

Your heart is racing high up in your chest, almost painfully. Your hands are tense when you push them further in the pockets of your jacket. You feel restless and frustrated and nervous and uncertain and no one opens the door, no one buzzes you in, so maybe something really terrible has happened and—

“Hello?”

You almost choke on your own breath at the sound of her voice. “Hi,” you squeak out, before coughing. “Uh – it’s me. I mean – it’s Lauren.”

Silence.

You swallow hard, trying to figure out what you should do.

Camila’s voice is kind of raspy when she says, “Oh – ok.”

“Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “Sorry – I just… How are you?”

You curse at yourself internally, because obviously you’re not going to have a fucking conversation through the freaking intercom right now, so you don’t why you even asked, why you’re even—

“Come up,” Camila says then. “Sixth floor.”

The door buzzes and you push it open before you can change your mind. There’s no elevator so you start making your way up the stairs, pushed forward by your nervous. You’re a little out of breath when finally arrive at her apartment. There’s a small plate on the door that reads _Cabello_ and for some reason it makes your heart skip a beat.

You take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself and then you knock. For a moment, there’s some shuffling behind the door, and then it swings open—

She’s not alone.

With messy hair, wearing sweatpants and a gray hoodie, she wraps her arm a little closer around the small boy that is sleeping against her shoulder, before bringing her finger up to her lips and signaling for you to stay quiet.

You’re completely shocked by the sight. You didn’t know she had a baby brother. You realize with a shock that you’ve been going to school with this girl for almost a full year already, and you actually don’t even know the first thing about her.

Camila pushes the door open for you.

It’s a small two-bedroom apartment; messy, with mismatched furniture and old wallpaper. But there’s soft music coming from the kitchen and there are pictures and paintings and drawings all over the walls, which immediately catches your attention.

Before you can have a proper look, though, Camila gestures for you to sit down on the couch, before she whispers, “I’ll just be a sec – I have to put Rowan to bed.”

She disappears into one of the bedrooms. When she comes back, she closes both doors behind her, before she stares at you, nothing but confusion on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” you stammer, not really knowing how to explain yourself. “Well, you weren’t – I don’t know. I thought I’d check to see… you know, if you were all right. Because you weren’t in class – but your audition… We were going to…”

You trail off. You’re blushing hard. Camila looks at you a little bit longer, before she turns around and walks into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Sure,” you breathe out, before your nerves push you to add, “Is Rowan your brother?”

“No,” Camila says with her back to you. “I’m just babysitting him. He’s our neighbor’s son.” She shuffles around, pouring you a glass of lemonade, before adding, “I have a little sister, though.”

Your eyes fall on the pictures on the wall again. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah, her name is Sofi. She’s only five.”

“Really?” you say. “Where is she?”

Camila shrugs. “She’s staying at my grandma’s at the moment.”

You don’t really know what else to say, so you stay silent. It feels strange to be inside the apartment. You don’t really know how to position yourself here. You feel a little hot and uncomfortable, and you don’t really know what to do.

Then, Camila says, “Why are you really here?”

You stare at her, before deciding to give her the truth. “I wanted to help you out with your summer school audition.”

She sighs. “I don’t know if I’m going to audition, Lauren.”

“What?” You can’t hide your surprise. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, “I might be busy this summer.” You must have given her a very confused look, because she adds with a short exhale, “You wouldn’t understand.”

It hurts a little bit. Sure, you never really talk to each other and sure, there are things that you don’t know about each other, but the fact that she just easily assumes that you won’t get it, pisses you off a little.

“Why?” you say. “What’s going on? Why wouldn’t I get it?”

She spins around, gesturing around her. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly swimming in gold here.”

You bite your lip hard, still not catching on. “But the summer school is a scholarship program. You wouldn’t even have to—”

“It’s the full summer, Lauren,” she says, cutting you off. “I can’t disappear for two full months. I have to help out, work, babysit—”

The pieces suddenly fall together.

“That’s what you’ve been doing,” you say.

She gives you a look. “What?”

“Whenever you weren’t in class,” you continue, realizing it. “You’ve been working, haven’t you?”

She gives you a look, before averting her eyes again, “It’s none of your business.”

It throws you off completely, the entire conversation. Her answers are so short and she doesn’t even look you in the eyes most of the time. She seems tense and uncomfortable as well, and it actually feels like you’re talking to a completely different person.

Then, Camila says, “Maybe you should leave.”

“Camila,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “You _have_ to audition for the summer school. We’ll be going on all sorts of visits – to companies and to theatres. My mother is booking the best of the best teachers. You _have_ to try for it. Or at least do the audition, then you can always decide later.”

She bites her lip and for a moment something shifts across her face, something you’ve never really seen in her features before; vulnerability.

She doesn’t say anything for a really long time, before finally mumbling, “I haven’t even started on the audition, and it’s in three days already. I wanted to, but I suddenly had to take care of Rowan – and I don’t know – I don’t even know how to…” 

“I’ll help you out,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “We can start right now.”

She gives you a look. “Have you seen the space of this apartment – I can’t even make one proper _grand jeté._ ”

“But…” you mumble, thinking hard. “Isn’t there any other place where we could rehearse?”

She rolls her eyes, as if it’s already a lost cause – but then her expression shifts. “Well, actually…”

//

It’s the widest space.

Elevated high above the busy streets of Brooklyn, you sit on the concrete roof of the apartment building, leaning back against the railing with a restless toddler on your lap, watching Camila dance.

It’s almost surreal – the way the bright sunlight falls onto her tan skin, the way she spins on the tips of her pointe shoes, right in the very middle of busy New York, yet completely distanced of it as well. You can’t take your eyes off her for even a single second. 

Rowan has woken up a while ago. He’s got messy brown hair and big, dark eyes with which he keeps staring up at you, shy at first, but then a little bolder. You try to distract him as much as you can, so Camila can continue creating and rehearsing her audition – but of course, _she’s_ the biggest distraction.

“Look,” you tell him, pulling him up a little so that he can properly see Camila. “Do you see her dancing? Isn’t that cool?”

Camila grins and makes an impromptu _réverence_ , which makes Rowan giggle. Your heart swells up at the sound. He stares up at you then, eyes wide, smile on his face. You bounce him up and down a little on your lap and he giggles even louder, and you say, “Now you’re dancing too.”

Camila laughs – it makes your heart shoot up in your throat.

You grab Rowan’s hands and sway him from side to side a little, while Camila continues to practice her audition. At some point, he falls still against you, just staring at Camila spinning around the roof, on her pointe shoes. He’s clearly fascinated by it, not able to take his eyes off her for even one moment.

“Yeah,” you mumble close to his ear. “Tell me about it, buddy.”

At that, Camila turns to look at you with a slight frown on her face, almost as if she heard you. You blush right away and quickly mumble, “Try to lift your leg a little higher in your _arabesque penchée._ ”

The corner of Camila’s mouth curls upwards, but she doesn’t say anything.

You continue practicing for almost a full hour, before you take a break to cook and eat some dinner, back in the apartment. Shortly after, Rowan’s grandmother comes to pick him up. She gives Camila the biggest hug, thanking her over and over again. You’re completely surprised when she pulls you in for a hug as well even though you didn’t do anything.

When she leaves, Camila says, “Rowan’s mom is really ill.” She doesn’t look at you when she adds, “My mother was really ill, too – so… so, I’ll do anything to help.”

Your chest tightens at her words. You don’t really know if you should say anything – you don’t know whether you even want to ask her about it, whether _she_ wants you to. So, instead, you mumble, before you can stop yourself, “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Camila’s eyes lock right into yours and for a moment your breath hitches in your throat.

“Thanks,” she says then.

You feel your cheeks heat up, so you quickly break the moment. “Should we go up again to practice some more?” 

“Right,” Camila nods. “Yeah – let’s do that.”

It’s slowly getting dark outside, but Camila doesn’t look like she’s going to quit any time soon. You actually don’t think you’ve ever seen her try so hard at something. Her hair is wild, her eyes are slowly getting hazy, but at the same time she has never looked more in her element than right now.

Hours later, when it’s completely dark, except for the bright lights from the city around you, she throws a sweater on and finally collapses down next to you, leaning back against the railing.

“Oh my God…” she mumbles, “I’m fucking exhausted.” She smiles at you and then adds, “I used to dance here with my mother. It was the only place where we had space.”

You feel your throat go a little dry, but you push yourself through it, anyway. “Was she a dancer too?”

Camila nods. “Yeah – she was the best.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue, to ask her what happened, but before you can say anything, Camila switches the subject, by saying, “What’s your favorite ballet?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “ _Le Sacre du Printemps._ ”

Camila eyes narrow slightly at your quick answer. Then, the corner of her mouth curls upwards, suddenly intrigued. “Why?”

Again you don’t even have to think. Your eyes lock right into hers as you breathe out, “Because it’s the only ballet that ever started a riot.”

There’s a beat of silence in which her mouth parts and you have to inhale in a little deeper not to get lost in the glint of her eyes.

“Tell me about it.”

You lean back against the wall. In all the years that you’ve been doing ballet, no one has ever bothered to asked you _why_ it’s your favorite, but Camila is looking at you like you’re about to tell her the most interesting thing in the world.

“Well,” you start. “It was first performed in 1913 and it was specifically created for Diaghilev’s company – _Les Ballets Russes_. They were a pretty wild company, pretty revolutionary. Stravinsky composed the music and Nijinski was in charge of choreography – he’s actually my favorite dancer of all time, Vaslav Nijinski.”

Camila softly smiles at you and you try not to lose your focus, by quickly continuing. “In the ballet, a young girl is chosen as a sacrificial victim, and then she dances herself to death. The very first time it was performed, at the _Théâtre des Champs-Élysées,_ the avant-garde nature of the piece caused a riot in the audience. The choreography, the music – people just went crazy. They had never seen anything like it. Apparently it was all pretty horrible and intense – but I can’t help but love it.”

Camila bites her lip, as she looks at you. “Why?”

Your exhale is a little shaky. “Because it just goes to show the power of ballet, doesn’t it? Of performance in general, actually.”

She doesn’t say anything, so you quickly add, “It goes to show that it has actual influence. That it can really do something emotionally; make people feel it – to the core of their bones. I love that transcendence from the dancers to the audience.” You look at her for a moment, before adding, a little breathlessly, “For me, that’s where all the meaning is. That’s why I love to dance, because I feel like it’s… Well, for me, that’s… that’s the closest thing to magic.”

You suddenly realize that her face is really close to yours – you’re not able to see much in the darkness, but you can feel her shoulder pressing against your own and her breath sort of falls against your lips—

—and then she leans forward and kisses you.

You’re so completely unprepared for it that your breath catches in the back of your throat, while your eyes barely flutter close, and then she breaks away again.

“ _Sorry_ ,” she says, pulling back. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry – _fuck_ – I just – I wasn’t thinking and—”

She stares at you and you are completely paralyzed under her gaze. Your mind is spinning on one thought and one thought only – _she kissed you she kissed you she kissed you she kissed you._

You don’t recognize your own voice when you breathe out, “What time is it?”

Something shifts on her face at the weird question. “What?”

You pull your phone out of your pocket to have a look for yourself. It’s 00.02. For a second, your mind shifts right back to your conversation with Keaton, and his question echoes in your head – _what do you do when you’re confused about something?_

You look right at Camila, and then you decide. “Do it again.”

Her lips part in surprise. She doesn’t move, so before you know what you’re doing, your body acts outside of your own control and you lean forward, bring your fingers up to her cheek and press your mouth back against hers. _Oh my God._ For a moment, the only thing you register is the softness and the warmth and then you can’t hold back anymore, running the tip of your tongue over her bottom lip until she parts her lips to let you deepen the kiss – and then you lose yourself completely.

_What do you do when you’re confused about something?_

You’re on a rooftop in Brooklyn, kissing a girl, pressing yourself against her while your entire body heats up on the taste of her mouth and the feeling of her hands in your hair, pulling you closer.

_You figure it out._

It’s 00.02 – and you just turned seventeen years old.

(Time for something new.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey lovely people,
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you think. How do you feel about the characters, did you have any favorite moments/sentences etc.? I love to hear your thoughts! Thank you so much for reading! I love you all and I hope you have a lovely day, wherever you are in the world!
> 
> -Blake


	3. the second year | july - september

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey everyone! 
> 
> So, I had this great structure planned out for this story in which I wanted to cover half a year per chapter. However, for this chapter there was so much to write that I decided to split it - otherwise the chapter would be over 20.000 words which would have been a bit crazy. So, I'll give you July - September of the second year now, and then the next chapter will be October - December. After that, I don't know yet how it's going to be, so we'll see when we get there. For now, enjoy the chapter my loves! <3
> 
> -Blake

You know every single inch of her body.

The curve of her collarbone, the shade of dark in her eyebrows, the edge of her hipbones, the line of her jaw, the shape of her lips. You know what the skin on her ankles feels like. How to kiss the tips of her fingers. The inside of her wrist. You know the exact heave and fall of her chest when your mouth is between her legs. How to work your fingers to make her scream. You know the taste of her skin. The hardness of her nipples. Where her pulse beats in her throat against your lips. The sounds she makes when you pull on the hair in the nape of her neck. You know the marks of dancing all over her body – you’ve seen them appear, you have caused some of them too.

The London Royal Opera House doesn’t have the slightest clue that the girl they’re watching dance on stage is all your body has ever reached for.

:::

**july**

:::

It’s the middle of the summer – and Camila’s got you shivering all over.

She curls her thumb right over the hem of your shorts, grazes the tips of her fingers slowly over the edge of your hip… You feel like you can’t breathe. Her other hand tangles in your hair and your eyes flutter shut involuntarily as you lean back against the wall of the theatre, while she lets her mouth hover closely over yours, almost brushing her lips against yours. It makes you lightheaded and heated and frustrated out of your _goddamn_ mind—

—and then she kisses you and you shiver so fucking hard that she laughs into your mouth. .

It spikes your adrenaline. You pull on her waist, making her stumble against you and then you switch her around and pin her against the wall, kissing her so intensely that she moans. The sound burns right through you. You run your hands down her back, under her shirt, going dizzy on the taste of her tongue and the heat of her skin and the way she’s got your _shivering_ in the middle of the fucking summer with—

The backdoor of the theatre opens right next to you and you jump away from Camila as if she’s stabbed you.

It’s just one of the technicians, carrying a large speaker set outside. He gives the both of you a cheerful smile and a goodhearted _good morning, ladies_ , but you can’t feel anything besides the ice cold panic that is suddenly sucking all the oxygen out of your lungs.

_Fucking hell what are you doing someone could have fucking seen you kissing her and_ —

“Lauren.”

“Stop,” you choke out. “Just – _stop_. I have to go. We can’t do this.”

She looks at you – hair a mess, lips wet and slightly swollen, eyes so captivating – and in a second of complete electricity, you think you want to tell her _you look beautiful_ but then your fear wins out, as always, and you push past her, into the theatre, not saying anything at all.

//

Summer school is tough.

Clara Jauregui’s classes are a walk in the park in comparison to what Peter Martins from the NYCB is making you do. He’s the City Ballet’s Master in Chief – and for some reason your mother managed to get him onboard for the program, causing all hell to descend upon you. He’s absolutely fantastic, of course, but _ruthless_.

After the first week, all your toes are bleeding, no matter how carefully you bandage them.

Your muscles are straining so much that the only thing you really feel is pain. You’ve got sweat dripping down your temples almost permanently and the same piano melodies burning in your veins over and over again – and none of what you’re doing even feels remotely like dancing anymore, but you know that it’s necessary. You know that _this_ is what being a classical ballet dancer is like.

You’re expected to be in by seven every single morning. First, you’ve got a two hour group session, which consists of classical classes taught by a rotating group of prominent choreographers and ballet dancers. After breakfast, you’ve got two academic hours to study the history of dance, followed by an hour of solos in the theatre, which mostly means you get harsh individual criticism right in front of everyone else. After lunch, another two-hour class, followed by technical privates with either your mother or Peter Martins. In the evenings, you get taken along to dance shows in the city, to get to know different companies and different styles. In effect, the only moments you can get some sort of rest are your weekends—

—except yours are filled with Camila.

You try to fight it at first, but you quickly realize that the more tired you are, the easier it is to allow yourself to be weak – and so you let it happen.

In the empty studios, between classes. Against bathroom walls. In the back rows of theatres when you’re once again the only two people hanging around after everyone else has left already. You can’t resist it. You don’t have any strength left in your body to push her away and you’re too tired to think about what any of it means. You let her kiss you and you kiss her back and there is no space in your mind to allow for any reflection or hesitation or even conversation.

You don’t talk about it.

You just let yourself go crazy on the feeling of your mouth against yours, until you suddenly freeze with panic at the faintest sound of a door opening or imagined footsteps coming in your direction, and then you push her harshly off of you again.

It’ll take a couple of days but then Camila will accidentally brush her hand against yours on the barre during warm-up or you’ll end up sitting a little too close to her during a performance – and the more tired you get, the easier it is to allow yourself to be weak.

“Is it locked?” you pant out against Camila’s lips, when she pulls you into an empty bathroom stall once again.

She rolls her eyes, but your chest feels too tight, so you push her off until you’ve made absolutely sure the door is locked and no one will accidentally walk in on you, and then you’re back against her, cupping her face between your hands and kissing her hard.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

It feels _so_ good, but you can’t help but curse yourself internally at the same time for never being able to stay away from her, no matter how hard you try. It’s like your body has no inhibitions left after that moment on the rooftop. It’s like you can’t ever get close enough to her.

You push yourself against her, pinning her hips against the wall, digging your fingers into her back. You don’t really know how it happens, but one moment you’re just pressed against each other, kissing hotly, and the next thing you know is that your leg falls between Camila’s thighs and she _moans_ into your mouth. You’re both wearing ballet tights and the lack of real clothes between you sends a shockwave through your entire body. You break away, looking her right into her eyes, and then you repeat the action, purposefully pushing your leg up a little harder. Camila’s mouth parts and then she moans _again_ , while her eyes fall shut and she rubs herself against you a little harder. 

_Oh my fucking God –_ you’re not able to think straight anymore. You don’t know what you want exactly, but you know that you want it – so much, all the time. For her to keep making those sounds and to keep pulling on you so desperately and to just tear off your damn clothes already and fucking kiss you until you’re both—

You snap out of it immediately, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of your thoughts.

Camila is staring at you, breathless and blushing and you realize with a shock that you never made out with Brad like this. You never even really _wanted_ it like this with Brad.

She brings her hand up to your neck and trails her fingers all the way down to your collarbone and then even further, making you shiver and shiver and shiver, locked in her gaze and completely heated all over, while the tips of her fingers stroke right over your—

There’s a sharp tug in the back of your stomach and you grab her wrist harshly, yanking it away and biting out, “Don’t touch me there.”

Her gaze darkens and she opens her mouth to say something, but you don’t give her the chance, already feeling your anxiety rush in your veins, already pushing yourself off of her, reaching for the door to—

“ _Fuck_.”

You swear loudly when your body accidentally knocks hard against the locked door. _Damn it._ You fumble with the lock for an embarrassing amount of time, and then you barge through the door and storm out of the bathroom as quickly as you can.

It’s one thing to have Camila Cabello moan into your mouth because of the way you’re touching her; but it’s a completely different thing to feel yourself losing control under _her_ touch. That, you’ve got to hold off for as long as possible.

You’re not a fucking lesbian.  

//

It’s making you tense – physically tense.

Never mind all the hours and hours of classical ballet training a week; constraining yourself enough to keep control when Camila’s mouth is burning on yours – that’s the real challenge.

“Stop doing that,” you choke out when she pulls you into her between the wings of the theatre and starts kissing your neck, arms wrapped closely around your waist.

She ignores you, running her tongue over the same spot over and over again until you can’t see straight anymore. You’re breathing hard. So fucking hard.

“Camila—”

Your head tilts backwards when she softly sucks on your skin and you can’t stop the noise that comes from the back of your throat at the sensation. She does it again and you want to push her off of you, but it’s like your body has lost all its strength—

—and then she sucks hard, right on your pulse point.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you breathe out, your hips bucking forward and into hers involuntarily.

She soothes the skin of your neck right away, running her tongue all over the spot, making you _tremble_ against her, moaning and swearing and—

You push her off of you. Again.

With wide eyes you run your fingers over the spot on your neck, feeling the panic crash down upon you with the way it stings a little, because _what the fuck what if it leaves a mark why is she even doing this to you why are you even letting her touch you like that what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—_

“Laur…” Camila breathes out, and before you can do anything she steps up to you, and kisses you softly.

It’s so different. So sweet and gentle. It’s half concession and half apology. 

She pulls back again and you want to tell her to leave, you want to tell her to leave you _alone_ because you don’t know how to deal with all the burning feelings inside your chest, but at the same time you just want to feel her lips against yours, so soft like that. So you lean into her a little more and kiss her again, while she strokes her fingers over your cheek. You lose yourself in the moment, before leaning back slightly and looking right into her brown eyes.

When her gaze falls down to your neck, she bites her lip, before mumbling, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a—”

_For fuck’s sake._

All the softness leaves your body instantly.

“I fucking told you not to do that,” you bite out. “Don’t try that again.”

You leave her between the wings, silent and breathless. You run straight to the bathroom to put make-up on the stinging spot in your neck, because God forbid someone sees you with Camila’s touch all over you like that.     

//

“What’s your name again?”

You swallow hard as Peter Martins halts right in front of you. For a moment, you feel a slight ache in your stomach because he is the Master in Chief of the NYCB and he still doesn’t know your name apparently. You can see your mother’s eyes narrowing at you right over Peter’s shoulder. So much for making an impression.

“Lauren Jauregui, sir,” you say, trying to make your _grand plié_ as perfect as you can.

His eyes go slightly wide. “Right, of course.” He studies your form. “Well, Miss Jauregui, it looks like you’ve got quite a lot of tension in your body.”

Your exhale is a little shaky and you don’t really know what to say. _Of course_ your body is tense; you’ve been working it to near breaking point for the last couple of weeks, not to mention the fact that you and Camila can’t stop—

“I’d suggest you take some time this week to loosen up a little,” Peter Martin says. “Give your muscles some rest. Take a bath to soothe the tension. I know the classes have been demanding, but we don’t want it to show in your form.”

You nod. _Take some rest._

Easier said than done.

//

The bathroom at your parent’s house is ridiculously luxurious.

Since the dorms are mostly used for exchange students during the summer, you’ve been staying at your parents’ apartment for the last couple of weeks.

When you arrive at home, you’re dead exhausted. Taylor wants you to watch _Hercules_ together with her, but you tell her no. The look on her face makes you feel extremely guilty, but you try to shake it off. It’s not that you really feel like taking a hot bath – it’s the middle of the summer after all – but it might be nice to spend some time alone. To clear your mind a little bit.

You run your fingers under the faucet, testing the temperature and trying to decide which one of the dozen other taps has soap that you like. After you’ve picked one, you dim the lights a bit, before stripping out of your clothes, trying to ignore the way your muscles ache with every movement.

As soon as you let yourself sink under the water, you try to relax. You close your eyes and breathe in and out deeply, while you attempt to focus on the feeling of the heated water on your skin, on the soapy scent in the air. You just have to relax your muscles. You have to give yourself some rest.

It’s not really happening.

Your mind is spinning with thoughts. It feels weird to just sit here in the bathtub, while you could be practicing your _grand jetés_ , while you probably _should_ be practicing considering the fact that you’ve barely made an impression on the artistic director. God. You can’t believe Peter Martins had to ask you for your name today. He never seems to have a problem remembering Camila’s…

_Camila._

Your fingers absentmindedly fall to the spot in your neck where she kissed you. You’re constantly hyper-sensitive of the hickey, even though it’s already fading again. Every time someone even as much as glances in your direction, you’re scared that they’ll be able to see it. You run the tips of your fingers right over it, trembling a little at the memory of her wet mouth on your skin.

_Camila._

Her fingers digging into your hips, her mouth burning against yours. She keeps finding ways to get under your skin, no matter how hard you try to ignore how she’s affecting you with her eyes and her fingers and her mouth, so demanding and—

You sit up abruptly as a heavy shiver runs down your spine. _Time to get out of the bath_. You’re not able to relax, anyway.

Most of the bubbles around you have already disappeared, but you grab the showerhead to rinse the rest of the soap off your body. You pull the plug out of the bath and get to your feet. As soon as the temperature is right, you bring the showerhead in front of your chest, running your hand over your stomach, before moving your fingers up to your neck and tracing them over your wet skin. The pressure of the water actually eases the pain in your muscles a little bit. You press your hand into your shoulder a little harder, massaging the muscles. _Hm…_ That actually feels pretty good.

You keep doing it, closing your eyes as you finally feel your body relax a little bit. Maybe you just need to do this for a while. Before you know what you’re doing, you bring your hand down and rub it over your breasts, sighing softly at the sensation. The water from the showerhead is running down your stomach, right between your legs.

Camila has really amazing legs.

You bite your lip at the thought of her thighs pressing against yours in the bathroom stall, the way she moaned when you—

Right when your left hand strokes over your nipple, the showerhead slips in your right hand, and you accidentally tip it over, making the water run directly between your thighs. 

_Fuck._

You quickly grab it to reposition yourself, but you can’t deny the heavy shiver that is running down your spine. You can’t deny the heated sensation and the way your stomach just _flipped_ at the direct pressure of the water on your center.

You bite your lip hard, suddenly feeling very flustered and self-conscious. Before you can stop yourself, though, you lean back against the wall and close your eyes while you bring the showerhead right back between your legs. You sigh hard at how _good_ it feels. You were supposed to make yourself relax, weren’t you? Surely, it won’t hurt if you…

The steam is making your thoughts a little foggy. The fingers of your other hand curl right over your hipbone and your breath hitches in your throat because Camila did the same thing to you and it made you feel— it made you feel completely—

You softly bring your hand down your wet skin, pushing the showerhead a little closer to yourself, while your mind closes in on the vision of Camila’s messy hair, her wet lips right after she kisses you, her touch on your skin. _Oh my God._ You gasp softly, moving your fingers even further down, not really able to hold touching yourself off much longer. Your hips buck slightly forward and it’s like you can feel Camila’s fingers curling in your hair, her lips on yours, moaning into your mouth.

You run your fingers right over your center then, letting out a shaky exhale at the feeling. You are so _wet_ – and you can’t stop your thoughts anymore.

You think about her body against yours, how much you want to feel her skin the whole damn time. You think about _her_ hand between your thighs, rubbing over you like you’re doing right now. You think about how good her mouth always tastes, how fucking much you enjoyed it when she ran her tongue all the way down your neck, sucking and licking, making you wonder what it would be like if she’d put her face right between your—

Your phone starts ringing from the other side of the bathroom and you drop the showerhead right on top of your foot, harshly startled out of your fantasy.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Hissing with pain, you turn the shower off and grab a towel, trying to shake yourself out of haze as you hurry over to pick up your phone, not even bothering to check who it is first.

“Hello?” you breathe out, voice all shaky and hoarse.

“Hi!” Lucy’s voice comes from the other side. “I thought I’d call you about next week. What’s up?”

Your exhale is long and drawn out, before you stutter out, “Uh – n-nothing… I was taking a shower, actually.”

She’s silent for a second before saying, “Are you ok? You sound a little… tense.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Ballet and stuff. Really stressed out. Summer school’s the worst. All my muscles hurt.” You realize that you’re rambling, so you quickly force yourself to say, “Uh – can I call you back? I’m kind of… naked.”

Lucy is silent for a moment. You can hear her smile when she says, “Well, you know what _I_ always do when I’m a little stressed out, right?”

You blush scarlet in less than a second, because, of course you fucking know – Lucy is basically responsible for the fact that you know how to use the damn showerhead like that in the first place.

“Right,” you stutter out. “Bye.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. You wrap your towel a little closer around you, trying to ignore how much you’re trembling and how hard it is to stop your thoughts from clouding your mind.

If anything, your body feels _way_ tenser than before.

:::

**august**

:::

You feel like you’re going crazy.

Between the most intense month of ballet classes you have _ever_ experienced and trying very hard to ignore the fact that Camila Cabello is making your head spin every single time she kisses you, you quickly realize you aren’t really ready for Lucy to visit.

But it’s the first week of August and there she is – a little taller, a little tanner, just as confident and beautiful and intelligent as always, ready to spin your life into adventure again. You can never resist her, of course. With your heart racing in your throat, you hug her close to you and she smiles against your cheek, before pulling back and looking you up and down.

“So,” she says, “What is it that you’re you not telling me?”

Your eyes go wide right away. “What?”

Lucy grins. “Lo, you’ve been acting weird for like a month, already. Well, weirder than usual, at least.” She hooks her arm through yours. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Jauregui.”

You’re blushing so incredibly hard. Lucy is your best friend in the entire world and you were definitely _not_ ready for this, not ready for her to see right through you the very first minute you’re together again, not ready for her to call you out on it.

“Uh,” you stutter, making your way through the crowded airport arrivals hall, trying not to show her your flushed face, “Nothing’s going on.”

The corner of Lucy’s mouth curls upwards. “Are you dating someone? Is it that handsome dance partner of yours?”

“ _Keaton_?” you choke out. “No, no – oh my God. No, Luce – I’m not dating anyone. I would tell you right away if I was, wouldn’t I?”

She squints her eyes. “I don’t believe you. Something is definitely going on. You’re blushing, Lo.”

You laugh, trying to play it cool. “I’m blushing because I didn’t see you for six months and then you come walking in here looking like that…”

She blows you a kiss. “Thanks, babe – but I’m not buying it.”

You quickly shuffle around an elderly couple, trying to create a little bit of space between you and your best friend. You’re almost scared that she will be able to feel the heat radiating off your body right now.

Then, Lucy says, with a grin, “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’m going to figure it out, anyway.” 

You take a deep breath. You know Lucy – if there’s anyone great at reading people, it’s her. Your voice is a little unsteady when you mumble, “Nothing’s going on, so good luck with that.”

She gives you a teasing smile and you bite your lip. _God_. How are you ever going to get through this month?

//

You’re concentrating so hard that you’re seeing spots in front of your eyes.

Peter Martins’ voice is ringing in your ears. “Index finger slightly closer to your thumb. Centre, both feet now. Watch your turn out, Miss Jauregui.”

Your fingers are clenching around the barre so hard that your knuckles are turning white.

“ _Grand plié_ , now. _Tendu_. _Demi plié_. _Tendu_. Again.”

Your throat feels impossibly dry. Beads of sweat are dripping from your forehead in your eyelashes. You feel lightheaded, barely able to keep looking into the spotlights of the theatre.

“Keep your shoulders low. Out, out, out, out, in fifth now. _Focus, Miss Jauregui_.”

You can hardly make out the rest of students sitting in the front rows of the theatre, watching as Peter Martins corrects your form.

“Prepare for your _arabesque penchée._ Up. Up.”

You can’t see anything anymore.

“Higher, Miss Jauregui.”

You feel completely faint, close to passing out.

“Am I not making myself clear – I said _up._ ”

You lose your balance almost abruptly, stumbling forward, only barely managing to hold on to the barre. _Fuck._ There’s a high kind of static ringing in your ears and all you see is the bright spotlights of the theatre and then—

“Lauren.”

She’s right in front of you, pressing her cold hand against the heated skin of your cheek, heavy brown eyes filled with concern. She pushes her water bottle into your hand almost forcefully.

“Here,” Camila says, “Drink some water.”

“Miss Cabello!” Peter Martins exclaims, cutting right through the moment. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Camila’s voice sounds faint in your ears when she says, “She’s completely dehydrated. I’m just giving her some water.”

You’re so extremely dizzy.

Peter Martins’ voice is sharp when he cuts out, “It’s not up to you to disturb the class, Miss Cabello.” 

All you see is Camila’s face, right in front of you, lips slightly parted, fingers softly stroking over your cheek. She uncaps her bottle and already moves to bring it up to your lips, but the sudden reality of the situation hits you and you harshly push her hand off your cheek. “I’m fine.”

At that, she frowns a little. “Come on, Lauren – just take the water.”

You shake your head. “I said I’m fine. I don’t need your fucking help.”

Camila slowly kinks her eyebrow up at you. There’s a slight edge to her voice when she says, “It’s just water, Lauren.”

You feel irrationally angry even though you don’t know why. Right before you can say anything else, though, Camila turns to Peter Martins and says, “I think she deserves a break. I think we all do, actually.”

Peter Martins’ eyes narrow right away. “Are you going to tell me how to run my class, Miss Cabello?”

You can see Camila biting her lip, before straightening her spine. “It’s not really a class if no one is able to pick up on anything anymore because we’ve been going at it for hours already.”

Peter Martins’ face pales. He stares at Camila, not saying anything. Then, he barks out, “Please leave the theatre.”

“Excuse me?” Camila says, “Are you actually sending me away because I—”

“ _Leave_.”

Camila sighs hard, before pushing the water bottle right back in your hand, locking her eyes right into yours for a moment when she says, again, “It’s just water, Lauren.”      

She grabs her bag from the floor and slams the door of the theatre closed before anyone can say anything else.

//

You find her on the steps in front of Fonteyn two hours later. With a scoff, you hand her the water bottle back, before snapping, “What the fuck was that all about?”

Camila gives you a look. “Are you being serious right now?”

You feel completely heated and not just because of the weather. “What kind of stunt was that? _Right in front of everyone else_?”

She gets to her feet, walking down the steps so that she’s right in front of you. “You mean me handing you a bottle of water because you were close to passing out? You mean _that stunt_?”

You can feel yourself frown. “You shouldn’t have touched me like that in front of everyone. What if they start thinking about it. What if they think we’re—”

“Oh my God,” Camila says, cutting you off with a laugh. “You are unbelievable. I touched your cheek, Lauren – I didn’t fuck you senseless against the barre, now did I?”

There’s a sharp tug in the center of your stomach.

Your anger spikes in your veins. “Fucking hell,” you bite out. “That’s just – _fuck_ – why would you even—” You can’t think straight with her face so close to yours, so you push her harshly against her shoulder, stepping back to create more space between you. “Stop doing all that _lesbian stuff_ to me! Just – back off, already.” You’re panicking when you choke out, “Are you in love with me or something?”

At that, Camila laughs.

It hurts more than your aching muscles.

She takes a step forward until she’s right in front of you, locking her eyes hard into yours. She’s taking the breath away from you with the way her lips are so close to you that you can almost feel them pressing against yours. Then she says, “For fuck’s sake, Lauren – stop thinking that the whole damn world is in love with you.” 

Before you can say anything else, she pushes you harshly backwards, just like you did to her, and then she moves past you, leaving you choking on your own breath with panic – like always.

//

You don’t kiss anymore.    

It’s actually a nice thing that Lucy is visiting you for the month, because it gives you the perfect excuse to spend all your free time with your best friend, instead of making out with Camila Cabello in bathroom stalls while you’re trying your very best not to freak out over it.

Lucy still hasn’t really dropped the issue, though.

“I just don’t understand why you’re not telling me what’s going on,” she breathes out into the darkness when the two of you are curled up on your bed, ready to go to sleep. “I can see that you’re thinking about stuff, Lo.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Luce – I already told you. I’m really not dating anyone. Where would I even find the time?”

Lucy sighs, before rolling over and wrapping her arms around you. She slowly exhales against your shoulder, already getting a little bit sleepy. Then she says, “You know I don’t care, right? You can date whoever you like, Lo.” She’s silent for a moment, before adding, “Except Brad, because he was a fucking dick.”

It makes you chuckle a little. You let your body fall into her a bit more, while you close your eyes and try not to think about anything anymore. You’re just about to fall asleep, when Lucy mumbles, “You shouldn’t care either. Love is love.”

You bite your lip hard, suddenly feeling very small and insecure.

Lucy presses her lips to the back of your neck, then, before mumbling _good night_ into your skin _._ For a moment, you think about how much it used to freak you out when she did stuff like that, how you couldn’t sleep for _weeks_ after the first time she kissed you for real – a dare during your fourteenth birthday party – staring up at the ceiling for hours, strangled in your own thoughts—

You feel tears prickling behind your ears when you realize that not all that much has changed between fourteen and seventeen.

//

A showcase performance will be held at the end of the summer school program. It’s mostly group work, choreographed by Peter Martins himself, but there’s one important solo. You can feel your mother’s eyes on you during the entire selection procedure. You know you’ve got what it takes, but at the same time you just can’t _concentrate_ anymore. It’s like all your focus has been swiped from your mind the very moment you kissed Camila on top of her apartment building.

You dance exactly like you’re supposed to, but right away you know that it’s not enough.

“Miss Cabello,” Peter Martin says, the next day, turning to Camila during your classical morning class. “Though we may have had our disagreements before, I think we can both agree that the solo I choreographed for our showcase needs some fire.” He smiles, despite himself. “I think we can also agree that this makes you our perfect candidate.”

You don’t even have the energy to feel really jealous about it.

//

“So,” Lucy says, “Which one of these do you think I should wear tonight?”

She’s standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, wearing a short black dress, but holding a red one next to it, trying to compare them.

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Try the red one.”

She unzips the black dress from behind, before dropping it right down to her ankles. You swallow hard, trying not to stare the fabric of her bra, trying not to let your eyes go over her body at all. _She’s your best friend, for fuck’s sake._

Besides, you are _not_ into girls.

“How do I look?” she says, as soon as she’s switched dresses.

You don’t know why it’s bothering you so much. You and Lucy have dressed and undressed yourselves in front of each other a million times before.  

“You look nice,” you breathe out.

“Lo, you’re not even looking.”

You bring your gaze up, feeling your cheeks heat up, because she _does_ look nice, but you can’t bring yourself to really tell her – too afraid she’ll read something into it. God, why is this so goddamn difficult for you? Why can’t you just be a normal person?

“I like both of them,” you mumble.

“Me too,” she grins, “But which one makes me look hotter?”

Your exhale is short and harsh. “Fuck – I don’t know, Luce. How am I supposed to know? I don’t look at you like that, do I?”

She gives you a weird look, before saying, “Ok…”

“Sorry.” You sigh hard. “I didn’t – you’re… they both – you look great in both of them, ok? I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on – the red one, I think.”   

She winks at you. “Not that anyone will have eyes for me, when I’m standing next to you, anyway.”

You try to smile, but you can’t really manage it.

//

Right before you’re about to go up on stage, you run into Camila between the wings of the theatre. She is looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen her. Most of the other girls are busy trying to fix their outfits, so no one is really paying that much attention to you.

Camila is wearing a gorgeous black leotard with a see-through black skirt over it. You can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks, despite yourself. She’s trembling a little bit, though; shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clenching her hands together; taking breaths that are too short and shallow. You look at her—

—and you can’t help yourself.

Before you know what you’re doing, you walk over to her and hand her your water bottle.

“Here,” you mumble, “Drink some water.”

She stares at you, a little startled. Then, her expression softens as she takes a deep breath and brings the water bottle up to her lips. 

“Thanks,” she says then, handing it back to you.

For a moment, you can’t do anything but stare at her wet lips. It’s like something shifts in the air between you.

“Good luck,” you breathe out, as the opening notes of her solo sound through the theatre. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Lauren…” she says, but then she spins around, barely making her entrance in time.

She dances and she is _fire_ – just like Peter Martins envisioned it. You watch her from between the wings the entire time, following her every move. You can’t stop yourself from realizing over and over again that no matter how much you force yourself to shift your thoughts, when Camila dances, she’s the most captivating and magnetic force you’ve ever encountered.

All you want to do is kiss her again.  

//

At the after party, you and Lucy get a little drunk on fancy champagne again. It’s the obvious thing to do. Giggling in the corner of the venue, you pull her closer into you, your hand resting lightly on her hip, because she’s wearing the red dress and it’s easier to loosen yourself up with every sip of your drink, letting the sparkles rush to your brain and erase your panic.

She kisses your cheek. “You were amazing, babe.”

You don’t even care that you’re right in front of everyone. This is just what you and Lucy do – and any time she’s next to you, you feel stronger, more like yourself, despite everything.

“You know,” you say, “Tomorrow is my first free day in _months –_ and I only have three of them before school starts again, so let’s do something fun together.”

She smiles at you. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Let’s do something in the city. Have a picnic in Central Park. Go to a rooftop bar and try to get drinks. Rent a freaking kayak – whatever. Just you and me, babe.”

Lucy nods, gaze falling to the crowd of people in front of you. “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

“Maybe we could go to a concert,” you ramble on, “It’s been so long since I—”

“Hold that thought—” Lucy says abruptly, cutting right through you. “I just quickly need to – before she leaves—”

She hands you her glass of champagne and then walks away from you, passing through the crowd and running straight up to—

_Fuck._

Your heart shoots up in your throat when you watch Lucy put her hand on Camila’s arm, making her spin around. Your eyes go wide. Oh my God. _What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck._

In less than a heartbeat, you slam both your glasses down on the bar and hurry after your best friend, pushing past the different choreographers and dancers, reaching the two of them just in time to hear Lucy say, “… and I loved your solo _so_ much.”

Camila’s are wide in surprise and she’s smiling her widest smile. “Thank you! I’m so happy you liked it.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucy says, also smiling, before extending her hand. You take a sharp inhale at the sight. “I’m Lucy, by the way. I’m Lauren’s friend from Barcelona.”

It’s like someone drags five hundred hot needles over your skin, when you watch Camila take Lucy’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Camila.”

You cough a little uncomfortably, and shift forward, trying to get Lucy’s attention, but neither of them looks up at you. Lucy is too busy working her bold I’m-meeting-new-people charm and Camila just seems flattered by the compliments.

“I can’t believe how many pirouettes in a row you managed to do!” Lucy says.

Camila blushes a little. “Thanks, I think I messed up at the end, actually, but—”

“Twelve,” you blurt out, because you know exactly how many pirouettes she managed to do. Not that it matters. Your mind is fuzzy. Neither of them are paying attention to you and you don’t even know why you’re even talking or what is even happening right now—

Lucy gives you a weird look, before turning all her attention straight back to Camila. “You’re from New York, right?”

Camila nods, before giving you a sideways look. Lucy catches it immediately. “Oh, yes, Lo told me.”

You feel like you’re about to collapse on the very spot.

“So,” Lucy says then, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

_Oh my God._

Camila runs a hand through her hair, clearly a little surprised by the question. Then she says, “Oh, I don’t really know… I haven’t – I mean, I don’t have any plans yet.”

Lucy’s eyes light up right away. “You want to come hang out with us? Lo wanted to go do something in the city, and since you’re from New York you might know some things that would be fun to do.”

Camila glances over in your direction. You stare at her hard, silently trying to tell her to say ‘no’, trying to tell her that it would be absolutely, completely, fucking _ridiculous_ if you were to go hang out with the three of you.

“Come on,” Lucy says, “Lauren doesn’t know a single thing about New York.”

You try to keep your eyes on Camila, but you watch her gaze shift to Lucy instead. You watch your best friend smile her most charming smile and you watch Camila get a little more flustered because of it, and then she mumbles, “Ok, yeah, I could show you around.”

A heavy shiver runs down your back.

“Great!” Lucy says. “Well, you can text Lo where to meet, I guess.”

There’s a little bit of an awkward pause, before Camila bites her lip hard, turns to you and then stutters out, “Uh – sure, yeah – your number.”

It’s not even a question. 

Lucy’s eyebrows rise. “You don’t have each other’s phone numbers yet? For how long have you been going to school together, again?”

You’re burning out of your skin. _Jesus Christ._

“Nice going, Lo,” Lucy grins teasingly, nudging your side. “Guess your game needs some work…”

_For fuck’s sake—_

You pull your phone out of your purse, before your best friend can dig your grave any deeper. When you hand it to Camila, your fingers are shaking. Your hand accidentally brushes against hers for a second and there’s the sharpest tug in the back of your stomach.

You are _so_ not ready for tomorrow.

:::

**september**

:::

“Is this even legal?”

Lucy gives you a look, nothing but excitement glinting in her eyes as she says, “Come on, Lo – don’t ruin the fun.”

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, “I’m not exactly sure if we should—”

Camila cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. “Do you want to see the NYTB’s première of _Coppélia_ or not?”

She spins around and her eyes lock right into yours. You can’t help but blush a little, because she’s standing pretty close to you, so you quickly take a step back, because it’s been like this for the entire day already – feeling flustered and heated and unfocused – and you can’t have Lucy thinking that you and Camila… That you’re—

“I don’t understand why we can’t just buy the tickets,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “I can pay for them.”

At that, Camila rolls her eyes. “Not all of us have a spare fifty bucks lying around, Lauren…”

“No, that’s what I mean,” you stutter out, “I can pay for your ticket, too.”

She scoffs. “Uh – no, thanks. I’ll go in like this.”

Lucy is grinning at the both of you. Then, she says, “New York City style, Lo. Come on, don’t be such a goody-two-shoes.”

“ _Goody-two—_ ” you stutter. “Luce, this is violation of property!”

“No, it’s not,” Camila says, walking past you to the other side of the ally, where she easily climbs on top of a debris container. “We’re not _breaking in._ We’re just using the theatre’s alternative entrance.”

“I still don’t think we—”

Your sentence dies in the back of your throat when you watch Camila take a short run on the container, before swinging her body forward, jumping right up into the air and grabbing onto the edge of the fire escape ladder, bringing it down with her weight.

_Wow._

Lucy grins at your face and you quickly avert your eyes.

“Are you coming or not?” Camila says.

Lucy is already ahead of you, always way too up for stuff like this – and since she’s your best friend, you’ve really got not much of a choice but to follow along. You make your way up along the fire escapes, until you’re standing in front of a black backdoor.

“All right,” Camila says, “So, the trick is to look like you belong.”

Lucy grins at her and Camila smiles right back. You can feel your eyes narrowing.

“We’re not even dressed for a première,” you scoff. “We won’t _look like we belong_.”

Lucy quickly runs a hand through her hair, straightening it, as if that solves all problems. Then she turns to you. “We’ll be fine, Lo. Just button your shirt up all the way like a hipster and fix your hair a little bit. Camila’s outfit is already on point, I think.”

Camila smiles and runs her fingers over the hem of her black dress, slightly blushing at Lucy’s words.

“Thanks, Luce.”

_Luce?_

What the actual fuck—

“Maybe also try to smile a little, Lo,” Lucy says, with a grin, “That’ll help too.”

She moves to button your shirt up but you push her hands away roughly before she can touch you, already doing it yourself. She doesn’t even seem bothered by it, all smiles and excitement and adventure.

“God,” Lucy says, “This is such a good day. Central Park, that bookstore café, the tacos… and now _this._ This is probably my favorite day in New York ever.”

Camila grins at her and you have to fight the urge to scoff, because first of all, _thanks very much_ , and second of all, when the fuck are they going to stop acting like this? There’s a burning simmer of hot irritation right in the center of your chest that you’re not able to push down. You thought _you_ and Lucy hit it off when you first met each other years ago, but this happening on a completely different level.

“All right,” Camila says, checking her phone. “Show starts in five minutes, so I think we’ll be good. Just blend in and don’t make any direct eye contact with staff members.”

Before either of you can say anything else, she pushes the door open, revealing a small hallway that leads to a larger foyer. You and Lucy quickly make your way through it, closing the fire escape door behind you again, before anyone notices you sneaking in.

As soon as you step into the foyer, you momentarily forget that you’re doing something illegal – because, God, the theatre is beautiful. The lighting is somewhat dimmed, making the classic interior design look that much nicer. Your eyes trace over the velvet red carpets and the chandeliers and the pictures of the dancers hanging on the walls.

You don’t realize Camila is standing next to you, until she whispers, “This is my favorite theatre in all of New York.”

Her bare shoulder is brushing against yours and you quickly step away, but you can’t stop yourself from sounding impressed when you breathe out, “It is beautiful.”

For a moment, her eyes lock right into yours and she smiles at you, before tugging her bottom lip back with the her teeth, drawing your attention right from her eyes to her lips. You swallow hard, not really able to say anything or move or—

“… Ok,” Lucy says, with a small smile. “Should we go in?”

“Right,” Camila says, spinning around and checking the different doors leading to the balconies. Without saying anything, she grabs onto your wrists and pulls the both of you after her. “Quick – right after these old ladies…”

There are a couple of old ladies who are busy trying to find their tickets in their purse, occupying all of the guard’s attention, and Camila slips you easily past him and right into the theatre. Your heart is racing in your chest.

“Oh my God,” you mumble, “This is so not ok—”

Your breath falls short, as soon as you reach the edge of the balcony, though. The theatre itself is even more beautiful. Camila catches you staring and she smiles at you, not saying anything.

“What do we do now?” Lucy says.

“We’re going to see a show,” Camila says. “You’ve actually got the best tickets in the house ma’am. Right on the steps of the balcony.”

Lucy squeals with excitement and already moves to sit down. You’re still busy staring at the gorgeous design of the building, but then the lights dim and you take a seat as well, already feeling your chest lighten up a little. You’re already inside, anyway. You might as well enjoy the show.

Camila sits down next to you, on your other side, and you can’t stop yourself.

“Just how often have you done this before?” you mumble, leaning over to her.

Camila softly smiles, not saying anything. The lights dim a little more, and then she says, “My mother used to take me.”

She shifts a little, hesitating for a short moment before adding, “I know it’s illegal. I know you don’t approve. But the thing is – not everyone has enough money to pay for all these shows. She tried to buy tickets. Of course she did. As often as she could, actually. But sometimes she just…” You can hear her swallow hard. “Well, sometimes she just couldn’t afford it, so we’d try to get in like this. She wanted me to see as many ballets as possible, to soak in as much art as I could.” She turns her head to look at you. The theatre is almost completely dark already, so you can only really see the glint in her eyes. “Sometimes she’d distract the guards, just to make sure I could slip in, even if it meant I had to see the show all by myself.”

For a moment, you can’t feel anything but her breath, close to your lips. There’s so much heat in your chest. You stare right into her eyes and you want to tell her something, even though you don’t know exactly what.

“Camila—”

The opening notes of _Coppélia_ sound through the silence, and you’re startled right out of the moment. You turn your head to the stage. It takes you a moment to get into the performance, but soon enough you’re breathless in the most delicious and familiar way, as you stare at the dancers on the stage, feeling their energy and their movements and their passion burning in your bones.

You are vaguely aware of the fact that Camila’s body is kind of pressing into your side, but you don’t really feel the urge to push her away anymore.

It’s dark all around you, anyway.

//

Lucy is already ten feet away from you, pulling her suitcase after her in the direction of the sliding doors leading to airport security – and then, in a split-second, she turns around, runs right back to you and wraps her arms around you once more.

She pulls you into her closely, pressing her lips hard against your cheek, before saying, “I know you’re going to pretend I didn’t say this, but I’m going to say it, anyway.”

Her eyes lock right into yours. Your heart shoots up in your throat and you can feel your body tense completely, but Lucy presses her finger to your lips, before you can say anything.

“I’m here,” she says. “Just so you know. If you’re ready to talk about it. Whenever you’re ready to talk about it. I’m here.” The softest smile curls around her lips as she adds, “I bet Camila’s a better kisser than Brad.”    

—and then she spins around, leaving you behind without looking back.

//

It takes you two full days to call her.

You cry when she picks up. You cry and you choke on your own breath and you stutter so uncontrollably that you can’t get a complete sentence out without nearly passing out from panic. You bite your lip so hard that you taste blood and you can hear the concern in her voice, so you hang up.

After a minute, you call again – and then you tell her everything.

“I’m not a lesbian,” you choke out, “I’m _not._ I don’t even know why I’m doing it. _I’m not a lesbian._ ”

Lucy is silent for a while, and then she says, “I think sexual experience doesn’t have to mean anything for your sexual orientation. If you like kissing a girl, it doesn’t immediately mean you’re a lesbian, Lo.” She’s silent for a beat and then she adds, “But forcing yourself to pretend that you don’t like kissing a girl when you actually really do, that’s extremely self-destructive.”

It feels like your heart breaks into a million different pieces.

“I love you,” you choke out. “I don’t want to be scared of saying that to you anymore.”

Lucy laughs softly, “Then don’t be. I love you too, you weirdo.”

You don’t think you’re ever going to understand how she always manages to flip the most complicated and messed up feelings inside your chest, into the purest, simplest things.

//

Second year begins with Keaton walking into the studio a good seven inches taller, tanner than you’ve ever seen him and with a ridiculous good-looking haircut. He picks you up and spins you around in circles, before finally putting you down again and staring at you with the brightest smile.

You can’t stop yourself, “So that’s what happens when you spend the summer in Europe, huh? Damn, Keaton… Way to make all the other girls jealous of me.”

He grins at you. “I wish I could say the same thing, but in all honestly, you look like you spent the last two months in hell, Junior”

You push his shoulder, before shrugging and answering with a smile, “That is actually a very accurate description of the Fonteyn Summer School. In retrospect, I should have also messed up my choreo during audition… Then we could have enjoyed Europe together.”

Keaton laughs. “As if Sergeant Jauregui would ever let her daughter run off to Europe for the entire – _oh, hi, Clara –_ I mean, _Mrs. Jauregui_!” Keaton jumps at the sight of your mother next to him. “It’s lovely to see you again. How was your summer? No, I wasn’t talking about you—”      

You turn around to hide your laughter, only to have the breath knocked out of you when you see Camila walk into the studio. You saw her three days ago, so there’s absolutely _no reason_ for your body to be reacting like this, but at the same time, you’re never really prepared for seeing her…

Her eyes lock into yours and there’s a sharp tug at the back of your stomach. You bite your lip, feeling yourself heat up under her gaze, but at the same time you can’t really look away. You can’t really stop yourself from thinking about—

Austin Mahone puts his hand on Camila’s shoulder and she averts her eyes from you abruptly.

You fight the urge to scoff as you watch Austin try to show off the fact that maybe he also got a little bit taller over the summer… Whatever. To you, he still looks like a twelve year old boy. A slightly taller twelve year old boy.

He doesn’t have much time to try and impress her though, because quick into her conversation with Keaton, your mother seems to realize that she doesn’t want to waste another _second_ on exchanging pleasantries, so she pushes Keaton out of her way and calls for you all to get ready in at the barre.

Without thinking about it, you position yourself next to Camila. Your mother signals to the pianist to start playing, and you prepare yourself for warm-up, but you’re still kind of busy frowning at Austin Mahone on the other side of the studio, so you accidentally miss your first cue, causing Camila to stumble into you when she steps sideways.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, a little breathlessly, “I wasn’t—”

“ _Sorry_ ,” you stutter out as well. “That was my fault. I didn’t really—”

Your breath catches in the back of your throat because being so physically close to her is causing all sorts of thoughts that you don’t want to think about to rush through your mind.

“ _Lauren_.”

Your mother’s voice cuts right through the moment. She stares at you hard, hands on her hips, when she scoffs, “Are you still asleep? Summer vacation is over.” 

You quickly spin around again, trying to find your focus, trying your very best not to blush too hard.

Such a wonderful start to the new school year. Just _wonderful_.

//

It happens barely a week and a half into the semester. You’ve been trying to avoid the studios at night, because you know that she likes to practice outside of school hours, but after a week and a half, you get so extremely frustrated trying to do your physics homework, that you can’t help yourself.

You push the door to the studio open, and there she is, spinning around on the tip of her pointe shoe, looking stronger than ever.

For a moment, you just stand and watch. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet, but then her gaze catches on your reflection in the mirror and she comes to an abrupt halt.

You hear yourself speaking, before you’ve properly thought about it, “You’ve gotten _so_ good at that.”

She stares at you, a little unfocused. “At what?”

“Dancing on pointe.”    

That makes her blush a little. “Not really…”

“Yes, you have,” you mumble, “Your summer school solo was absolutely perfect.”

She stares at you, hands on her hips, unreadable expression on her face. Then, she says, “What do you want, Lauren?”

It doesn’t sound particularly harsh or angry. It’s mostly neural – just a question. A pretty obvious question, considering the situation. You can’t help but feel yourself burn up under her gaze right away, though, while you struggle to find a proper answer. Half of you wants to ask her what she means, but at the same time you kind of already knows what she means, you just don’t think you know how to explain it, you don’t really know how to tell her anything, because you’ve barely even allowed yourself to _think_ about what it is you want, so you don’t know—

“I want to dance with you,” you blurt out, before you can stop yourself.

Camila’s eyes widen slightly for a moment, as if that wasn’t really the answer she was expecting. She takes a deep breath, letting your words echo between the two of you. Then, she says, “In the dark or…?”

You take a step closer, before you shake your head. “No, let’s just…” You swallow hard. “Let’s try it like this… If you – if you’re ok with that…”

Your heart is beating in your throat. Camila stares at you for a moment longer, then she shifts herself into fourth position and holds out her hand to you. Your mind is spinning when you cross the distance between you and grab hold of her hand. You haven’t danced together in two months. Sure, you’ve danced together during summer school, but you haven’t _danced_ together – not like this anyway.

Your hand falls down to her waist and you try to ignore how your heart speeds up at having her under your fingertips again. For a moment, Camila just stares at you and then she pushes off and starts to move. You fall into it so quickly that you almost can’t believe how easy it is. It’s all muscle memory – the way your body folds itself into hers again. Muscle memory – the way all the individual parts of you suddenly connect into something solid that only burns for the music and the floor and for _her._

Minute after minute after minute, you dance. Your breath goes ragged, your hair tangles loose down your shoulders and your muscles are waking up, coming alive with every _pirouette_ , with every stroke of her fingers over the palm over your hand, with every second she presses herself closer into you.

She spins, moving away from you into a _grand jeté,_ right before turning back in, curling her entire body into you, letting herself forward onto the palms of your hands and—

You kiss her.

It’s such a spur of the moment decision, that you almost catch yourself by surprise. Camila gasps into your mouth and she stumbles, falling back to the soles of her feet, breaking away from you. There’s a split second in which you see nothing but the brown of her eyes, right in front of yours, and then you pull on her hips and kiss her again, and this time she kisses you back.

_God._

Your mind spins into overdrive the second she parts her lips for you, wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you closer. It’s so intense, so desperate, so hungry – both of you just pulling and pushing on each other, trying to get closer. Closer to each other. Closer to the heat. Closer to whatever the hell keeps burning between you, no matter how hard you try to take the oxygen out of it.

Her fingers tangle in the hair at the back of your neck and your hands are pressing into her hips, almost harshly, because every single inch of your body is reaching for _her_.

Then, Camila’s hands accidentally graze over your skin under the hem of your tank top, and it sends such a shockwave through your veins that you break away abruptly. You’re both breathless, staring at each other and panting lightly.

You can feel the reality of the situation crashing down on top of you. You can feel yourself get panicked because you _want it so much_ – but you can’t ever allow yourself to have it, you can’t ever—

“Hey,” Camila says, cutting through your panic, voice a little hoarse. “Lauren.”

She takes the smallest step towards you. You can feel your chest heaving up and down with the worst kind of anxiety. You can feel your body going so impossibly tight with the realization that you _want_ to kiss her so much, that you’re actually pretty sure you’ve never wanted anything so intensely before – and the thought makes you stomach clench with pain.

Camila’s words are almost a whisper when she breathes against your lips, “Let’s slow down…”

And then she kisses you again, softly, without pressure. She kisses you and all you feel is the softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth on yours – nothing but softness and warmth. Just her lips against yours and her fingers on your cheek, your mind closing in on the most minimal of touches.

You sink into her touch a little, feeling your panicked heart rate slow.

After a moment, Camila breaks away and looks at you. She is so impossibly beautiful; eyes dark, skin a little heated, lips so soft and red and inviting. You let your hands fall back to her waist, before softly pulling her a little closer against you – and then you press your mouth to hers again.

She sighs in your mouth and hums when you deepen the kiss. The heat comes slowly now, simmering under your skin, less abrupt, but more intense. Your hand falls to Camila’s neck and you can’t help but stroke her heated skin with your fingers, feeling her shiver right under your touch.

Your panic slowly starts to crack.

Camila presses her body a little closer against yours and you can feel every single inch of her against you – her thighs, her hips, her stomach, her chest. You kiss her a little harder, wanting to be even closer, wanting to feel _all of her_. Her hands fall down to your hips and this time, when she strokes your bare skin, you let her do it – over and over again until you can’t think straight anymore, until you barely even know where your skin ends and where her fingers begin.

Camila’s fingers curl over your hips and then she breathes against your lips, “Dance with me.”

You nod, completely breathless, and Camila is already moving into the music again, but then you say, “Wait.”

She does. She looks at you and then steps up to you again, softly kisses your lips, before pulling back so you can say, “Let’s do the darkness. I want to forget about technique. I just want to feel it.”

Your fingers trace over her jaw and she smiles, before walking over to the light switch – and then you’re back to nothing but your senses and she’s back to you; pulsing and breathing and close.

All you feel is movement and heartbeat and the bare skin of your stomach flexing under her fingertips and the way you kiss each other in between dancing – her neck against your lips and her mouth on yours and her fingers burning into you _everywhere_ they go.

For the entire summer, you didn’t know what dancing was, and now you know again.

//

Time shifts into nothing but _this._

Like a magnet, the rest of September contracts in its entirety into these hours, into these touches, into less dancing and more… more of _this_.

Your _glissades_ become less connection between steps, more way to close the distance between your body and Camila’s; your _pirouettes_ less artistic virtuosity, more surrendering to her control; your lines less extension of your limbs, more tension between the two of you, more heat, more, _more_. 

Everything you’ve ever felt pulses right into these moments – and you are starting to feel yourself losing control.

It happens when Camila kisses you hotly, right before lifting her leg so high that it lands against your shoulder and your fingers accidentally brush right over the inside of her thigh. She gasps and her head tilts back while her eyes shut closed abruptly.

“Sorry…” you breathe out, blushing incredibly hard. But then she kisses you again, grabs your fingers and brings them right back to where they brushed against her skin. She drags them up the length of her thigh, still keeping her leg up and staring right into your eyes, completely intent, completely purposeful. You both shudder at the sensation.

It happens when the strap of your leotard falls down your shoulder at some point and Camila presses her mouth to the bare skin under it almost immediately. You push the strap even further down and moan when she keeps kissing you, running her hands over your hips at the same time.

It happens when she pulls her tank top off and you make out against the barre while ‘American’ is playing on repeat in the background. It happens when she pulls yours off too, and you’re both just in your shorts and bras – you can physically _feel_ it happening, how difficult it’s getting to slow down, how much you are starting not to want to slow down anymore.

Your fingers fall down to her collarbone.

“Camila…” you breathe out.

It’s happening. You can feel it happening. Her eyes lock into yours – and then your fingers slide down ever further until your hand is cupping her breast and she softly hums. Her eyes fall shut and you are losing your breath with the way she moves a little further into you, making your fingers shift over the fabric of her bra, making your fingers graze right over—

She moans and you can feel her nipple hardening – and all thoughts about ballet are erased from your mind completely.  

Before you know what you’re doing, you grab her hand, bring it up to your own chest and then you breathe against her lips, “Dance with me…”

She knows what it means. She knows what it means because she stares right into your eyes and then cups your breast – doing exactly what you’re asking.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hi everyone,
> 
> How was that? :) Please let me know what you think! I'm actually really enjoying working on this story. I love all the characters so much! Let me know what you think so far. I always love reading your thoughts.  
> Have a wonderful day!
> 
> -Blake


	4. the second year | october - december

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Hey lovely people,
> 
> Buckle up for 11,000 words of tension.   
> Let me know what you think! I hope you all have a great day. :)
> 
> -Blake

You try to tell yourself that it’s the jet lag that has got you feeling like this while you sit in the fourth row of the London Royal Opera House, but your body knows better. Camila will always have this effect on you. Watching her dance will always make your senses respond in the most intimate and intense way.

Between the two of you, the line between dancing and touching was always a blurry one.

:::

**october**

:::

You really don’t have time to lick your tongue over the curve of Camila’s neck, because second year is way more demanding than first – but she tastes so good that you can’t help it.

“ _Fuck_ …” she swears against your ear. “Lauren – God… that feels—”

The muscles of her stomach flex when your graze your fingers over the heated skin, and it’s almost like she’s chasing your touch. The thought makes your head spin.

“Laur—”

You curl the tip of your thumb right over the edge of her hipbone and she bucks against you.

“ _Fuck_ – we can’t – we really have to—”

With your hands tangled in her hair, you kiss her so hard that she moans into your mouth. She lets herself fall into you as you pull on her hips, keeping yourself pressed against her, while your hand falls down to the small of her back and then lower, right to—

She breaks away abruptly, grabbing your wrist and yanking it back. “We have class.”

The heavy brown of her eyes is nothing but heat; her lips are slightly swollen and her cheeks are blazing red. Your heart speeds up at the sight. All you want to do is kiss her again, push her back against the wall of the studio and—

The corner of her mouth curls upwards. “Later, Lauren.”

Before you can say anything, she pushes you off of her and walks into the direction of the door without saying anything else. 

You don’t have time for any of this – but you can’t help it.

//

“What are you doing?”

Normani looks up with a frown, before shaking her head and rolling her eyes at you. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

You stare at the half-packed suitcase on her bed, the clothes sorted into different piles next to it, the bag with toiletries. “Are you going on a trip?”

Normani nods slowly. “I have to go back to Atlanta for a while.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just continues folding her clothes and putting them into her suitcase. You shift on your bed, a little unsure. There’s something harsh in Normani’s movements, something tense. After a moment of hesitation, you mumble, “Are you ok?”

At that, Normani looks up. Her bottom lip trembles when she says, “My grandma is really ill.”

A wave of emotion rushes through your chest. “Oh, Mani…”

It only takes you a second to cross the room and wrap your arms around your roommate, pulling her into you. She shudders a little against your shoulder, before breaking away and quickly wiping the tears out of her eyes. “I’m ok, I’m really – you don’t have to… she might not…”

She trails off and you pull her right back against you. “Come on” you mumble against her cheek. “Just hug me.”

Her shoulders shake when she allows herself to fall into you. Your chest stings. “Mani, if there’s anything I can do to help…”

Normani shakes her head. “No – I’m fine – I just… I don’t know what to…” She stares at you, dark eyes glinting with tears. “I don’t know how to deal with this on – on top of ballet.”

“Hey,” you say, grabbing her hands in yours, “Don’t worry about that, ok? You need to be with your family right now. That’s way more important. Ballet can go fuck itself.”

At that, she softly smiles, before shaking her head. “Lauren Jauregui telling ballet to go fuck itself… Who are you and what have you done to my roommate?”

You can’t help but smile at the way her expression lightens a little, but you quickly grab her hands and squeeze them tight to reassure her. “Seriously, though, I’m here for you. If there’s anything I can do…”

Normani nods and softly smiles. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” you say. “You name it. I can help you pack. I can run down to the cafeteria to get us some snacks. I’ll let you use my speaker set to blast Beyoncé if you’d like.” Normani grins even wider, so you quickly continue, happy to see the smile on her face. “I can show you my fantastic rendition of the _single ladies_ dance.”

At that, Normani laughs out loud. “Please – as if your classically trained ass could ever do it justice.”

You fake offense. “ _What_? I’ll have you know that I absolutely own that routine, Normani.”

To prove your point, you move your hips and Normani bursts out in laughter again, before shaking her head with a grin. Then, she mumbles something which you don’t really catch, because you’re already running over to your speakers to put the song on. When you turn around again, Normani is looking at you with one eyebrow kinked up. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Sorry, what?”

She grins at you. “I just said that the song choice is kind of ironic, Lo.”

You don’t catch on. “What, why?”

“Because,” Normani says, “You’ve not really been giving off the impression of being a _single lady_ lately…”

In a split-second, it’s like all the air gets knocked right of your lungs while your heart shoots up in your throat. The familiar sense of panic is already spreading through your veins at Normani’s words, but _she can’t know._ It’s impossible. She’s just messing with you. _She can’t know._

With your nails pressed into the palms of your hands, you let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it cool. “Excuse me?”

Normani smiles. “Keaton mentioned that you’ve been a little… distracted these days.”

You scoff, trying to breathe through the panic, trying not to blush. “Keaton also thinks he’s going to be the next Eminem one day – what’s your point?”

The corners of Normani’s mouth twitch. “Nothing.”

You stare at her for another tense moment, before you turn around and grab your iPod to find the song. Right when you’re about to hit play, Normani adds, “I’m just wondering where you keep disappearing off to all these nights.”

_Fuck._

Without turning around, you mumble, “I’m dancing.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

There’s a sharp tug in the center of your stomach at Normani’s teasing words, at the thought of Camila’s hands all over you, her mouth kissing you dizzy.

You quickly turn around, trying to change the subject. “Do you want to see me do the routine or not?”

Normani grins. “Fine. As long as you’re not back together with Brad, though – that idiot always annoyed the heck out of me.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not Brad.”

_Fuck. Fuck._

“I mean,” you quickly add, “It’s not anyone. It’s nothing. Nothing. Nothing is going on.”

Normani stares at you. “Maybe if you say ‘nothing’ one more time…”

“Oh my God.” You let out a heavy exhale. “I’m going to _kill_ Keaton the next time I see him.”

Normani doesn’t reply. She just looks at you, hands on her hips, challenging glint in her eyes as if she knows damn well that you’re not telling her the truth. For a second, there’s a slight simmer of trust in the center of your chest, a slight simmer of confidence that tells you that maybe you _could_ tell her—

But then Normani says, “All right, get on with the damn routine, so I can show you how it’s really done afterwards.”

You quickly put the song on, hoping that she’ll think the tint of red on your cheekbones is from dancing your ass off rather than anything else.

//

“I’ve got an idea.”

You’ve said it before you can stop yourself – and right as Camila spins around to face you, you bite your lip because you should have known her eyes would glint with spiked interest. You should have known the excited curl of her lips would shoot straight down to your heart.

“What kind of idea?”

There’s a slight edge to her voice that makes your toes curl in your _Capezio’s_ , but you try to ignore it because it’s not _that kind_ of idea.

“For your solo,” you mumble, a little hoarse. “Come here.”

Camila makes her way over to where you’re seated on the edge of the stage. Since all the studios were booked for private classes, the two of you have been trying to choreograph Camila’s solo in the theatre. It took you a while to figure out how to work the spotlights, but now you can’t stop staring at the way Camila’s muscles flex in the light, can’t stop staring at her eyes and her lips, can’t stop wanting to pull her against you, kiss her hard, drag your hands all over her body until she’s nothing but heat against you and—

You can’t.

You’ve got work to do.

Camila’s smile curls a little more as if she knows exactly where your thoughts just went for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything when she swings her legs over the edge of the stage and waits for you to continue.

“So,” you say, trying to ignore the fact that her bare thigh is brushing against your knee, even though you’re always hyper aware of any inch of her body against yours. “You know the _Spectre de la Rose_ solo, right? Vaslav Nijinski’s solo in _Petrushka_?”

There’s a flutter in the center of your stomach when Camila says, without any hesitation, “Yeah – he’s your favorite ballet dancer, isn’t he?”

You nod, ready to go into the explanation of your idea for Camila’s solo, but she cuts you off before you can continue.

“Why?”

“Oh—” you stammer, a little startled by the question. “Um – well, you know.” You bite your lip and then you breathe out, “Because when he jumped, it looked like he was flying.”

Camila stares at you and you can feel your cheeks heat up under her gaze. Your throat feels dry. She looks at you with the softest expression on her face and it’s completely throwing you off, because you can’t have her looking at you like _that_ when you’re trying to concentrate.

It’s a lost cause, though. You keep staring at her neck, at her eyes, at her mouth, especially when she softly runs the tip of her tongue over bottom lip and wets it subconsciously.

“So,” she says, “You want me to be like Vaslav Nijinski?”

Your eyes meet hers. “Maybe.”

Camila purses her lips skeptically, and before you can stop yourself you add, “I’ve seen you jump – you could look like you’re flying, if you wanted to.”

It burns a little in your chest to say it. You’re still not used to admitting out loud how good you think she is at ballet, how fast she is _improving_ at ballet, every single day. But you’ve been watching her on stage for almost two hours already and you just can’t help it. Here, in this light, in this theatre – this place where performances are build, where dancing is _created_ – you can’t help but be impressed.

Camila is still looking at you, so you quickly avert your eyes and bring your finger to the black dancing floor on which you’re sitting.

“So, this is what I was thinking,” you say, staring at the floor as you draw the choreography out for her, talking through the indication of her positions, envisioning her movements across the stage. “… and then you go right into _grand jeté_ – flying, flying, flying – and then _révérence_ , you’re done. Just like Nijinski.”

When you look up, Camila is smiling at you. “You know, you’re really good at this.”

You frown, a little confused. “At what?”

The glint in her eyes is all you see when she says, without hesitation, “Choreography.”

You try not to blush. You’re constantly trying not the blush when you and Camila are together. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

Brushing her comment off with a quick _um – thanks_ , you get to your feet and walk over to center stage, waiting for her to join you.

First, you run through the choreography again, breaking it into smaller bits to make sure she gets the details right. After that, you spend a long time working on perfecting Camila’s jumps, both of you going breathless, but feeling increasingly ecstatic at the same time, unable to stop going, high on the feeling of creating something new, of mastering something new.

At some point, the sheer force of Camila’s _grand jeté_ takes you so by surprise that you don’t manage to step aside in time, causing her to stumble against you when she lands. You quickly bring your hands down to her hips to steady her – heated skin, breath against your lips, her eyes burning into yours – and then you break away, trying to ignore the wave of tension that is rushing through your body at the contact.

“Yeah,” you mumble, “That’s it. That’s exactly it. You’re — you’re really flying.”

Camila’s right in front of you, panting, hair fallen loose from her bun, blush on her cheeks. You can feel the air between you thicken as your gaze once again catches on her lips, her neck, the heave and fall of her chest.

You want her _so much_ – it’s insane.

Every single inch of your body is on fire when you step forward, pull on her hips and—

“ _Fuck._ ”

You’re startled out of the moment right away, as Camila’s eyes suddenly go wide and she abruptly rushes right past you to grab her bag from between the wings.

“What’s—” you stammer. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

She doesn’t say anything, just grabs her phone from her bag and then sighs really hard, before finally turning around. “It’s almost two a.m. already.”

“What?” Your eyes go wide. “No – I’m sure it’s only midnight. We haven’t been here for that—”

She turns her phone around at it’s right there in the center of her screen: 01.49 a.m.

Camila swears in frustration. “Fuck – I should have put an alarm. I even thought about putting an alarm and then I completely forgot about it again because we were… And the subway line that I have to take only runs once an hour after midnight – _damn it_.”

“What time does it go?” you ask.

She stares at you. “01.52 – three minutes from now.”

You both know that she won’t make that.

_God._

You can’t believe it’s that late, already. You’ve been here for hours and hours without even realizing how much time has been passing. Sure, you’re pretty tired, but you didn’t think it was _that_ late. You’re always tired, anyway.

With a groan, Camila drops down on the floor and swings her feet over the edge of the stage. “God – that’s what I get for living off campus… I’ll only be home at 3.30. If I’m lucky. Probably later. And if I want to be on time for tomorrow’s classes, I have to get up at 6 again.” She laughs insincerely. “That’s a nice total of two hours sleep.”

You swallow hard, feeling like you’re in the middle of the sun when you mumble out, “My roommate’s away at the moment.”

Camila stares at you with raised eyebrows, not catching on. “So?”

Your throat is so dry that you can barely speak. “So – um,” you stutter out, “She’s in Atlanta at the moment, visiting family – so you could – I mean, she’s not using her bed, so if you… Like, if you’re having trouble getting home, you could – I mean… well, you could stay here – I guess. If you – well, _yeah._ ”

“Oh,” Camila says. Then her eyes go wide, “ _Oh._ ”

Fuck.

You’re such a fucking idiot.

“I mean, you should probably just wait for the subway, though,” you choke out, backtracking right away. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Obviously. It’s a stupid idea. You should just wait for the subway.” You stare at Camila’s frown. “I mean – I could wait with you if that helps. Not that you, like, need company or whatever – I don’t mean it like that. I really don’t mean anything with it – like, _at all_ —”

_Jesus_ – what are you doing? _Fucking stop talking already._

Camila stares at her phone. Then she says, “Actually…”

You can feel your pulse in your throat.

“… maybe I’ll stay.”

//

It happens like this:

Camila walks out of the bathroom, hair tangled and wet, wearing a pair of sweats and the tank top you handed her before she went to take a shower. She collapses right on Normani’s bed, mumbles a tired “thank you” and then falls straight asleep.

You stare at the ceiling, tense and uncomfortable, too heated for your own skin, unable to stop yourself from focusing on her heavy breathing in the darkness next to you, unable to stop yourself from focusing on the fact that yesterday you had her pinned against the barre with your hands under her shirt and you weren’t even half as freaked out as you are now with Camila next to you, fully clothed and under a blanket and _asleep._

You’re still awake when your alarm goes off in the early hours of the morning, and Camila rolls over, smiles a tired smile at you and mumbles out a hoarse “good morning” that causes a heavy tug at the back of your stomach.

You’re tense and irritated and you make her go down to the studios half an hour before class starts, after you’ve checked the corridor fifteen different times, because God forbid anyone sees you entering the studio together, God forbid anyone sees her walking out of your room.

It happens like this:

You can’t focus during any of your classes. Camila keeps looking at you and you keep trying to avoid her gaze. You’re irritation fades eventually, but you just can’t find your _focus_ , especially during the evening, which you spend together in the theatre again, this time working through your own solo.

You can’t stop thinking about how much time is passing, how much later it’s getting with every passing minute that Camila keeps spinning you around on the tip of your ballet shoe. You can’t stop thinking about subway lines that only run once an hour after midnight.

Then, Camila says, “Do you think Normani minds?”

—and you can’t focus, so the only thing you do is shake your head.

She falls asleep in the bed on the other side of the room and you’re so exhausted that you eventually _do_ fall asleep, but when you wake up having dreamt only of her hands on your thighs and your mouth in her neck, the tension is even worse than the day before.

It happens like this:

You text Normani, hoping she’ll shoot you down, hoping she’ll text you _fucking hell, Lo, what the fuck are you doing – this is ridiculous._

But instead she says _of course Camila can stay in my room when I’m not there._

It happens like this:

The spotlights of the theatre make Camila’s skin glow under the tips of your fingers when you practice partnering that night. You brush your hands over her sides during her _pas de bourrée_. She presses her fingers to the inside of your thigh when straightening your _arabesque._

Your body keeps going taut and loose at every single touch.

It’s past midnight and the subway only runs once every hour.

Neither of you say anything when you make your way up to your dorm. You shower, skin heated and tight when your massage the soap into it.

Twenty minutes later and Camila is not even a full foot out of the bathroom, when you can’t take it anymore. You push the door closed behind her and then press her back against it, kissing her hard – and then, everything spirals right out of control.    

//

You feel like you can’t breathe.

Camila is a year younger but a whole of a lot more confident than you when she pushes you back onto your bed and brushes her lips against the heated skin of your neck, her tangled, wet hair falling against your shoulder while she kisses you in a way that is making your senses spin right into overdrive.

The fabric of the shirt you’re wearing is way too thin, because you’re feeling _everything_ – the points where her fingers are pressing into your hips, the exact way her thigh is shifting between yours, the lack of inches between you as Camila moves her body closer into yours. Your eyes fall closed when Camila teases you with her mouth hovering over yours. You chase her touch, pulling her body tight against yours. She smiles at you in the darkness, and then she kisses you – harder and quicker and hungrier, every movement more desperate than the last.

Her fingers are low on your stomach and all you want to do is push them even lower.

_Fuck._ It feels so good. _Fuck._ It feels _too_ good.

She brings her fingers right up your bare ribs, and it’s driving you crazy. She brushes them over your breast and you moan – so uninhibited, so completely out of your control—

—but you’re not fucking _gay._

You push Camila off you so harshly that she hisses in pain.

“Damn it,” you bite out. “Don’t fucking do that. What is wrong with you?”

Straight away, you’re back to where you began all these months ago – scared and panicked and not ready.

“Fucking hell,” Camila swears loudly. “Not _this_ again.”

Her eyes squint in the darkness of your room as she stares at you, hard, challenging you. When you don’t move, she roughly pulls her shirt down, rolls out of your bed and—

You want to tell her _wait_ , but you can’t bring yourself to do it.

Camila gets to her feet, grabs her sweater from the floor and swings her bag over her shoulder. Right as she reaches the door, she turns to look at you, making time stretch the tension. With her hand on the doorknob, she says, without the slightest bit of insecurity, “It doesn’t have to mean a fucking thing, Lauren. I’m not in love with you. I just want to touch you sometimes.”

A year younger but a whole lot more confident.

The door falls shut behind her, and you don’t sleep for even a minute the entire night, kept awake by her words beating around in your mind and the overwhelming, unsteady beating of your own heart.

//

The next day, Camila doesn’t show up for class and Normani comes back in the afternoon, making October end with the most mind-numbing _what if_ you have ever experienced in your entire life.

:::

**november**

:::

November means ballet scouts for the spring season are visiting Fonteyn.

They usually only take third or fourth years, but for some reason you’re selected to dance along with the spring production of _Giselle_ , which has your mother over the moon with excitement.

She takes you out for dinner, just the two of you.

Right through her monologue on the _artistic integrity_ of the company in question and how wonderful it is for you to have a taste of the _crème de la crème_ of the ballet scene, you say, “Why did you admit Camila to Fonteyn?”

Your mother stares at you, a little bewildered.

“She’s a year younger than everyone else,” you press on, before she can back out. “Why’d you allow her admittance?”

“Well,” she says, pausing, looking you up and down, eyes slightly narrowed, “Isn’t it obvious?”

You shrug. “Yeah – she’s good. But a lot of girls are good. Normani is good. Eva is decent. What’s so special about Camila?”

Your mother is quiet for a really long time. There’s a light haze in her eyes as if she’s deep in thought about something. You’re about to roll your eyes and drop the issue, when she says, with a soft smile, “Mija, have I ever told you about my audition for the Royal Ballet Upper School?” 

You don’t know what that has got to do with anything, but you slowly shake your head, waiting for her to continue.

“I auditioned when I was fifteen,” your mother says. “I was too young. I was too young and too inexperienced and I auditioned, anyway.” Her eyes lock into yours. “They didn’t let me in. They said they appreciated my ambition, but my technical foundation was too weak. I remember being furious about that. I remember thinking _not everything should be about technique._ I remember feeling sick to my stomach with the fact that ambition alone never really seemed to count in classical ballet.”

Your mother looks at you. “I didn’t get in and so I trained my ass of for years to get to the technical level that I needed. I forgot about being furious. I forgot that when I was fifteen, I fiercely believed that ballet did not always need to be about perfection. I believed that sometimes ballet should be wild, that sometimes ballet should be brave – they made me work on my technique until I forgot that I once used to believe in that.”

There’s something tight in your throat that you can’t really swallow away.

Your mother gives you a half smile. “That’s why I admitted her. Because when Camila dances – and you know this too, mija – she may not be technically flawless, but she’s wild and she’s brave. She dances with her heart, like I used to be able to, until they made me forget how.” Your mother’s exhale is long, before she says, “She took a chance, so I gave her one.”

You take sip off your water, trying to release the tight feeling in your chest. You don’t know why, but something about your mother’s words stings in the very center of your body.

“Technique’s important, though,” you say, when you’ve finally gathered enough breath.

Your mother nods. “Yes, it is. But being brave is, too.”

Absentmindedly, you think about how often you get stuck in this place where it feels like you simultaneously know your mother better than anyone else and also not at all.

Then, you breathe out, “Which counts more?”

Again, your mother takes her time to think about the question. She reaches out over the table and grabs your hand into hers. Her smile is soft, but her eyes are serious, when she says, “If you really want to be a dancer, your technique has to be perfect. You have to work for it. Year after year after year. There’s no other way.” She squeezes your fingers, before adding, “But people should always try to be brave.”

It burns in your throat when she aims her words directly at you. “You should always try to be brave, my love.” 

//

“I don’t want to—”

“Come on, let’s just try it—”

“You’re going to drop me—”

“I would never—”

You can’t stop grinning at your friends. Keaton is on one side of your tiny dorm room, Normani on the other.

“Mani,” Keaton says with a smile, “We both know you’re going to give in at some point anyway. We _are_ going to do the _Dirty Dancing_ lift.”

Normani shakes her head, stubborn as ever. “You’ll fucking drop me and you know it.”

“I won’t!”

Keaton flexes his muscles as thought that will prove a point and Normani raises one eyebrow very skeptically. You burst out laughing, drawing your roommate’s attention back to you.

“Why don’t you do the lift with Lo?” Normani snaps right away.

Keaton rolls his eyes. “Because I want to do it with you.”

Normani glares at you and you make a point of wiggling your eyebrows. “Yes, Mani… He wants to do it with _you_ …”

Her gaze hardens. “You two are such idiots.”   

“Yeah,” you say with a grin, “But your cold heart loves us for it – now, do the lift.”

Normani stares at Keaton, lips a straight line. “I swear, Stromberg… If you drop me…”

“I’ll take you out for dinner,” Keaton says with a smile. “If I drop you, I’ll take you out for dinner. In a nice restaurant. I’ll even pay. It’ll be lovely. How about that?”

Normani scoffs. “I don’t want to go out with you.”

Keaton’s smile only widens as he flexes his biceps again, showing off. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going to drop you.”

Normani sighs hard. “Just for the record, I’m only doing this to make you losers stop whining.”

Keaton bumps your fist with his own. “Mission accomplished, Junior – all right, let’s do this, Mani.”

He rolls his shoulders and then signals to Normani that he’s ready. Normani gives him one more pointed look, sighs in frustration and then takes off at a run, jumps up and—

Keaton crashes right into the book shelves behind him, making half of your novel collection tumble to the floor.

You can’t stop laughing.

“For the love of God,” Normani snaps, pushing Keaton off of her roughly. “I _told_ you this wasn’t going to work! This room is a freaking closet. What is wrong with you?”

Keaton rubs the spot where his head bumped against the wall, before saying with a smile, “Oh, no… Now I guess I have to take you out for dinner. It’s not like that was my plan in the first place or anything.”

You laugh even louder at the look on Normani’s face. She abruptly throws a pillow right into your face before snapping at Keaton, “We are _so_ not going out for dinner.”

//

A week later, you’re alone in your bedroom because Keaton and Normani are on a date. The thought alone makes you smile.

“They’d be so cute together,” you tell Lucy over Skype once your best friend has finally picked up. “Keaton better not screw this up.”

Lucy laughs, before saying with a soft smile, “What about you, Lo?”

You can feel your cheeks heat up, but you decide to pretend that you don’t know what she’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

Lucy gives you a pointed look. “How’s everything with you and Cam—”

“There’s nothing,” you say, cutting her off, before she can even say it, “There’s – it’s not like… Well, I haven’t seen her.”

At that, Lucy frowns. “Don’t you have class with her every single day?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, “I mean – I haven’t _seen_ her.”

The corner of Lucy’s mouth curls upwards. “You mean you haven’t made out with her for a while?”

It stirs a hot simmer of irritation in the center of your chest. “Yes – that. Whatever. It’s not important.”

Lucy is silent for a while, sensing your shift in emotion. Then, she says, “Did something happen?”

Your exhale is long and drawn out, while you push yourself a little further in the pillows on your bed, trying to think of a way to deflect the question.

“Lo…”

“I think—” You swallow hard. “I don’t know how to stop feeling – I don’t want to… She said she—”

You’re not making any sense. Lucy waits, though. She always waits.

“I don’t fucking want to feel all those things when she touches me,” you choke out, then. It’s the only coherent thought that your fuzzy mind is able to structure.   

“What things?” Lucy says.

You can feel yourself blushing.

“Just, like…” you mumble, thinking of Camila’s warm hands under your shirt, curling over your ribs, fingers tracing right over your breast, her mouth in your neck, her leg between yours, pressing down on you and—

“Lo,” Lucy says, soft and patient, as always, “What are you so scared of?”

You look at your best friend’s face. You bite your lip, trying to find the answer in the mess of insecure and nervous thoughts that are running through your mind. Your breath hitches in the back of your throat. “I don’t know – it just makes me feel…. I mean, what if I don’t like it?”

“Well,” Lucy says. “You know your own body better than anyone else. Just do what feels good, I guess.”

You bite so hard on your lip that you can taste blood. Your voice is hoarse and small when you say, “What if I _do_ like it?”

At that, Lucy looks at you. She doesn’t respond right away, but then she says, “If you do like it, I don’t see the problem.”

There’s a second in which your mind flashes right back to being fifteen years old, giggling into Lucy’s mouth as she pulls on the string of your bikini top, making it drop to her bedroom floor; feeling your breath hitch as she kisses down your collarbone, fingers on your hips, making you feel so incredibly, so incredibly—

You snap yourself out of it. “It’s not going to happen – I’m not into that kind of stuff. Not with girls.”

Lucy’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. There’s a strange edge to her voice when she says, “You used to be.”

It’s something sharp. It’s something you don’t hear that often.

“I’ve got to go,” she says then, ending the conversation abruptly.

She hangs up before you can say anything else, leaving you with nothing but confusing thoughts about Lucy’s eyes and Camila’s fingers – and your racing heart, stuck somewhere in the middle of all of it.

//

Normani comes back from her date, blushing. It makes you smile.

She spends ten minutes deflecting your questions, but eventually gives in and admits that she thinks Keaton is at least sort of nice. It makes you smile even more.

“He’s ridiculous, of course,” Normani says, rolling her eyes. “He got me flowers _for fuck’s sake._ ”

She has to bite her lip to hide her smile, though, and you say, “Pretty bold of him, though.”

Normani nods. “Yeah.”

You’re already in bed, eyes closed, nearly asleep, when you hear Normani mumble, “Being bold can be good sometimes.”

//

It happens like this:

You notice that you can’t stop yourself from staring at Camila stretching into the barre during your morning classes, even if she’s ignoring you. You notice that you can’t stop yourself from wanting to be next to her to watch her movements as closely as possible, even if she seems focused on ballet and ballet only. You notice that you can’t stop yourself from wanting to hang out with her in studios or theatres again; can’t stop yourself from wanting to choreograph solos for her; can’t stop yourself from thinking about what almost happened when Normani was in Atlanta, even if Camila telling you _I just want to touch you sometimes_ is making you more nervous than anything else in your entire life.

It happens like this:

You avoid the theatre and studios for two weeks straight and then you walk in to find her flying – high above the floor, mid _grand jeté_ , wild and brave – _flying_ like Vaslav Nijinski _._

Your favorite ballet dancer. She remembered that he is your favorite ballet dancer.

It happens like this:

You think about your mother telling you that people should always try to be brave and you try not to stutter when you say, “I want to touch you too. It makes me fucking nervous – but I… I think I want to.”

Camila stares at you, and then she says, “Let’s dance.”

There’s a breath of relief, and you try not to think about the fact that she not only knows who your favorite ballet dancer is, but also how to make things easier for you. She pulls you in by the hip and knows how to make the line just blurry enough that you can’t see it anymore. 

:::

**december**

:::   

The temperature drops like crazy, and on Tuesday morning, right after your classical rehearsal, Camila pulls you aside and says, “I want to skip class today.”

Your gaze catches on the brown of her eyes, on the curl of her smile and you stutter out, “W-what?”

“I want to go ice skating,” Camila says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the perfect day for it.”

She’s already pulling a hoodie over her head and slipping her black sweatpants on. With a grin, she takes her pointe shoes off and changes them for sneakers. Then she says, “Are you coming with me?”

Over Camila’s shoulder, you stare at your mother, who is too busy arguing with the pianist about a certain part of the melody to notice the two of you. She will kill you for skipping class – December is one of the most important months at Fonteyn. You’ve got _Giselle_ coming up and you’ve got the Christmas Eve performance and—

“Come on, Laur,” Camila says, and maybe it’s the nick name or the way she pulls her long hair loose from her pony tail and flips it right over her shoulder or the fact that she’s standing a little too close to you for it to be casual, or maybe it’s her eyes, playful and challenging, on you and only on you, in that very specific way that makes you—

“All right,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “Let’s get out of here.”

//

It’s surprisingly quiet at the Wollman ice rink when you arrive in Central Park.

The air is freezing cold against your cheeks, making your eyes burn with watery tears. Your hoodie and sweats are not at all appropriate for this kind of weather – and Camila isn’t much better off. You scold yourself for not bringing a proper coat. Stupid New York City winters. With a sigh, you jump up and down and rub your gloves together, trying to get warmer.

This is a bad idea.

Camila, on the other hand, seems to think it’s the best idea in the entire world.

“What shoe size are you?” she says, voice spilling over with excitement, “I’ll go get us skates.”

“Uh,” you mumble, staring at the ground, “I don’t think I’ll go skating.”

She spins around abruptly. “ _What_?”

“I don’t really – uh.” You cough. “I don’t really – hm… _like_ skating.”

Camila stares at you, and then kinks her eyebrow up. “So you’re skipping class because you thought we were going to…?”

You blush hard. “No, no – I just – I mean, you can go skating. It’s just not really… like, my thing.”

She studies your face for a moment. Then, the corner of her mouth curls upwards. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“What?”

Camila gives you a smug smile. “You can’t skate, can you? That’s why you’re being weird about it.”

“No,” you stutter out. “That’s not - I mean… What? No.”

“Lauren,” Camila says then, grinning even wider. “You’re ridiculous. Let’s go.”

She pulls on your wrist and doesn’t let go, making you so flustered that you’ve got no choice but to follow her along to the rental booth and mumbling out your shoe size to the guy behind the stand, to make Camila finally release your hand again.

You stall when you’re sitting on the bench, trying to tighten your skates, searching your mind for a way out. Your cough again, your voice hoarse from the cold when you look up at Camila. “So… you’ve done this before then?”

Camila has already got her skates on and is impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Hurry up,” she says, ignoring your question, “It’s freezing. I feel like I’m turning into a freaking icicle over here.”

“You can go ahead,” you mumble quickly, “I’m just – uh – fixing this… little thing here.”

Camila stares at your fumbling fingers that are clearly not doing anything. Then, she says with a smile, “Ok – fine.”

Before you can say anything else, she turns around towards the opening in the boards, takes four strides at a run and—

_Fuck –_ she’s _clearly_ done this before _._

You momentarily lose all focus on your own skates as you watch Camila spin around the rink as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. You bite your lip hard – and before you can stop yourself you tighten the straps and stumble forward to lean over the boards, following her every move with your eyes.

Wild and brave – not only in dancing.

Your heart stutters a little, and you can’t help but absentmindedly wonder if she’s ever going to look like she doesn’t belong exactly where she is in whatever moment in time.

With your pulse pounding in your veins, you watch her speed up in larger circles, effortlessly making her way around the children and parents. At some point, she notices you staring and she grins at your expression, giving you a small wave. The gesture shoots right down to your chest.

Knowing she’s got your eyes on her, Camila tries to show off right away, skating backwards only to crash immediately into the first person behind her. She abruptly loses her balance and falls to the ice. Her head tilts back in laughter and the sound is so addictive that you can’t help but laugh as well.

You watch her get to her feet, apologize to the man and then she makes her way over to you, coming to a sharp halt right in front of you. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and her eyes are glistening in the light. Her lips are bright red, spreading into a smile.

“Come on,” she says, “It’s so much fun. Stop stalling already. I’ll hold your hand, all right.”

There’s a heavy tug at the back of your stomach as you mumble, “That’s not – uh – necessary…”

Camila grins and skates over to the opening in the boards, waiting for you. You take a deep breath, holding on to the edge as you stumble towards the opening.

“Ok – so maybe you were right,” you suddenly blurt out, nerves taking over your pride. “I can’t skate. I haven’t… I’ve never done it, so, don’t laugh, ok? Just—”

Before you can even finish your sentence, Camila grabs your hands and drags you forward abruptly, pulling you right on the ice.

“ _Oh my God—_ ”

You stumble and almost lose your balance, but Camila is right in front of you and catches your waist before you crash to the ground.

She smiles in your face. “Relax.”

“ _Relax_?” you choke out. “What do you think you’re—”

She pulls you forward and you glide over the ice, slowly but steadily.

“See?” she says, “It’s not that hard.”

All your muscles tense. You can’t believe you’re doing this; you can’t believe you’re letting Camila pull you over the ice like a five year old, because you don’t dare to lift your skate for even a second, let alone let go of her hands.

“Lauren,” Camila says, pulling a little harder and smiling at the way your eyes widen with the increased speed. She tries to let go of one of your hands, but you grasp it so tightly that she can’t move. Camila grins. “You know, I think that if you can dance with me in a pitch black studio with barely any clothes on, skating shouldn’t be this big of a deal.”

You blush so hard that it makes her smile even more.

For a moment, she pulls on your hands without moving backwards right away, bringing you suddenly so close against her that you could count her eyelashes if you wanted to. She smiles and bites her lip and your breath catches in your throat when her gaze flicks down to your mouth—

—and then she lets go of your hands and you’re suddenly skating all by yourself.

You scream and Camila laughs as she circles around you, speeding up.

“ _Oh my God_ , Camz!” you choke out, feeling yourself slipping.

Before you lose your balance, though, she’s right back in front of you again, grabbing your hips and steadying you.

“What did you just say?” she says with the biggest grin.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. “Why did you do that?”

Camila ignores your question. “Who is _Camz_?”

You roll your eyes, trying to fight the tension in your stomach. “Fuck off.”

“All right,” Camila says and pushes herself off of you.

You scream out again. “ _No_ – come here.” You wave your arm mindlessly in front of it until she grabs your hand again. “God… Don’t t let go of my hands, ok?”

Camila smiles. “I thought you said you didn’t want me to hold your hand.”

You bite your lip and then you smile as well, unable to stop it. Camila winks at you and you take a deep breath. “Ok – let’s do this skating business. Show me how it’s done.”

She teaches you the basics and soon enough it gets easier. After a while, you can manage to do an entire circle around the rink all by yourself. You’re over the moon with excitement – forgetting all about the cold and about the risk of falling. You’re so enthusiastic that you speed up, trying to skate in line with Camila in front of you, only to realize that you don’t know how to come to a halt yet.

“Camila!”

She spins around and you crash right into her, making the both of you slam down to the ice abruptly. Camila groans in pain under you, and then laughs out loud. “Oh my God – that is one way to come to a stop.”

Your legs are tangled, blades of your skates stuck behind each other’s. Camila grins up at you and there’s a sharp tug in the center of your stomach as you realize the position you’re in. Her cheeks are flushed, hair completely messy – and she looks so beautiful and happy that it makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.

“Hi,” she says with a smile.

You smile – it happens completely outside of your control. “Hi.”

The moment stretches for another second longer, but then Camila groans again and tries to push you off, “You’re kind of making it hard to breathe, Laur.”

You quickly roll off her, making a fool of yourself as you try to get back to your feet, your skates slipping on the ice. You are blushing hard and your head is spinning and for some reason you’re suddenly very compelled to tell her, _no, you are making it hard to breathe._

Entirely for different reasons, though.

//

You’re shivering from head to toe. You don’t think you’ve ever been this cold in your entire life. All your muscles hurt and the mascara has run completely from your eyes and your skin feels raw from the constant freezing wind – and you’re so _fucking_ cold that you can barely stand on your feet anymore. It’s making you completely tense with pain.

Camila is not much better off.

With shaking fingers, you turn the key to your parents’ apartment. You’ve got no idea what time it is. You’re hungry and tired and you spent way too many hours at the ice rink in just your sweats – and now your entire body is shaking as a result.

The house is completely empty, like you expected. Your dad is working. Taylor and Chris are still at school. Your mother is teaching at Fonteyn – and Camila Cabello is standing in the doorway to your parents’ penthouse, eyes wide as she takes it all in.

She doesn’t comment on anything, though. Instead, her jaw trembles slightly when she says, “Can we take a bath?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, already stumbling over to the bathroom. You’re so cold that even your voice shivers; so cold that you don’t register the way she said _we_. “Yeah, I’ll run you a bath.”

The water burns on your fingers when you turn the multiple faucets on at the same time, trying to fill up the tub as quickly as possible. Both of you just keep shivering in the middle of the bathroom, getting colder by the minute, not saying anything.

“Ok,” you mumble at some point, turning around and trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m just going to switch the heating on and change into… warmer clothes and—” Your lips are shaking, and you’re muscles are trembling completely outside of your control. “Well, there are towels over here and…”

Camila is staring at you and the rest of your sentence dies in your throat when you catch the soft glint in her eyes.   

“What?” you breathe out.

She bites her lip, voice raspy when she says, “This is a pretty big bathtub.”

The words curl in your stomach, pulse under your skin, causing a shiver to run down your spine that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re freezing and everything to do with what Camila is implying.

It feels like the air closes in around you, making it unable to see anything else but Camila’s fingers as she plays with the hem of her hoodie, before pulling it right over her head.

You swallow hard.

There’s nothing but the sound of the water running in the tub next to you and the tension in your aching muscles and your ice cold clothes against the goosebumps on your skin, clothes that you’re just dying to take off—

_Wild and brave._

You stop thinking about it.

In one swift movement, you push your sweats down your legs, hook your fingers under the hem of your sweater and drag it up over your head. You don’t dare to look at Camila anymore when you slide out of your leotard and push your tights down, until you’re in nothing but your underwear. You close your eyes, swallow hard, again – don’t look, don’t think, don’t look, don’t think. You’re shivering when you unclasp your bra and you drag your panties down your legs, and then you’re naked, fighting your nerves, and the water burns.

The soapy scent fills the air as you let yourself slide into the bathtub – don’t look, don’t think – focusing on nothing but the heat and the water and the soap and your body, burning up to the point of discomfort, before slowly easing into the warmth of the bath.

You can hear her take her clothes off, and then she steps right into the tub with you and your eyes fly open and you can’t do anything _but_ look at her as she slips under the bubbles.

She’s got goosebumps all over her skin, hair a wild mess, something in her eyes that makes your heart tighten.

“Hi,” Camila says, voice rough.

“Hi,” you breathe out, your exhale heavy with tension.

Minute after minute, you sit across from each other in the steaming tub, mostly hidden under the soapy layer of bubbles, but not hidden enough to stop your body from going taut and loose at Camila’s every movement.

Any time your leg accidentally touches hers, you feel like you can’t breathe.

It starts slowly, so slow that you barely even feel it – just a brush of her fingers over your calf, the slightest spike in tension. Then, more deliberate – her fingers pressing into the side of your knee, your hand falling down to Camila’s thigh, making her red lips part.

You can no longer register whether you are feeling heated because of the water of because of the fact that you’re _naked_ and the tips of Camila’s fingers are drawing mindless circles over your skin.

Your hand inches up higher on her thigh. You’re so familiar with her body – having yourself pressed up against her wearing nothing but skintight leotards on so many different occasions already – and yet this is completely different. You’re almost bursting right out of your skin at every movement.

“Lauren…” she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed.

The strangle in her voice is all you need. You shift forward abruptly, hook your hand around the nape of her neck, and kiss her.

It is slow for all of two seconds – and then Camila moans into your mouth and you snap through all of your inhibitions. You pull her closer, kissing her harder, right as she hooks her hands around the backs of your thighs and pulls you harshly into her, making you straddle her against the side of the bathtub. 

_Fuck._

Your heart gives out.

In less than a second your entire body shifts from nerves into pure and uncontrolled _want_ – screw staring at each other during class, screw partnering in empty studios, screw dancing in the dark. It’s _nothing_ in comparison to this. Nothing has ever made you feel like this before.

Months of trying to control yourself around Camila fade to the back of your mind when her nails dig into your lower back and your hips jerk forward. She kisses you hard, fast, making you burn into her body, _melt_ into her body.

Her hands get tangled in your wet hair, while you press your fingers into her midriff, running them higher—

The sound she makes when you run your palms over breasts, causes a fucking a riot in your blood, a revolution in your veins.

She licks right up the column of your throat and your entire body shudders, while your head tilts back to give her more access. Time speeds into nothing but rough skin and heated movements and fingers grazing, exploring, testing. You bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning when Camila runs her fingers over the plane of your stomach, before licking the spot right under your jaw, making you tremble against her. Her nipples harden under your palms and you kiss her deeply, making her spine arch. The shift of her hips against yours kicks the breath out of you and spills burning fire into you, all at the same.

Camila’s hand falls to the inside of your thigh and you have to break the kiss to catch your breath, both of you panting, loud and fast, in-sync.   

Camila’s fingers inch up higher and—

“Fuck…” you breathe out, your mouths inches apart, foreheads pressed together.

You grab her hand, not ready for her to feel how affected you are by her touch. Instead, you bring her fingers up to your breast, trembling when she strokes them right over your nipple, and you fall apart under her touch.

Your hand reaches up to her cheek, the wet skin rough under your palm. You kiss her softly, tasting her lips, tasting her mouth, unable to stop the noises coming from the back of your throat. There’s nothing but heat and tension and _this_ – Camila naked under you, trembling and shivering.

You’re 17 years old and this is the most intense thing you have ever felt.

It suddenly makes you feel extremely vulnerable.  

“Hm…” Camila breathes against your lips, feeling the shift. “Are you ok?”

You feel completely overwhelmed by the sudden tenderness in her voice. Your _yes_ catches in the back of your throat, because the fact that she’s checking if you’re ok makes your lungs feel like they’re closing up.

Instead, you hum against her lips as a response.

The moment softens. Camila looks up at you, her eyes so gentle. She kisses you softly, stroking the wet strands of hair behind your ears, before softening the tension and saying with a smile, “Are you still cold?”

You shake your head and kiss her again, pressing yourself closer against her, but softer too. Less rushed. When you break away, you take the deepest breath, before you can feel the corner of your mouth curl upwards as you say, “Are you hungry?”

Camila’s laugh echoes in your ears. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

//

You end up on opposite sides of the couch in the living room in front of your parents’ TV, both with a cup of tea and a grilled cheese sandwich, suddenly shy about what happened – about how far both of you took it.

Camila is wearing one of your old sweatshirts, which makes your stomach twist in a strange way; not necessarily uncomfortable, just strange.

You watch a little bit of the 1995 version of _The Nutcracker_ and then Camila says, “I should probably go” and you nod, because you also don’t know what you’re supposed to do right now.

“Are you going back to Fonteyn?” she says.

You shrug. “I might hang out here for a while, until my siblings are home. I don’t see them that often.”

“You have siblings?” Camila says.

You nod. “Chris and Taylor.”

Camila smiles. Then, she mumbles, “I had fun today.”

It makes you blush hard, and you look down at the floor. You try not to let your voice waver when you breathe out, “Yeah – me too – the skating and the…” You blush even harder. “Well – anyway, it was worth skipping class for.”

The corner of Camila’s mouth curls up playfully. “Definitely.”

She’s already almost out of the door when she says, “You know, we should do it again sometime. Not the skipping class thing. That other thing – what we did in the bathtub.”

Her words curl around your spine. She smiles and leaves before you can say anything else, before you can even properly register the fact that she just admitted with complete ease that she wants to get naked with you again.   

//

The days become a mix of dancing yourself to near breaking point with rehearsals for the upcoming Christmas Eve performance and trying to keep your head together with _everything else_ that is going on at the moment. You don’t even know how to divide your attention anymore. Between ballet, final exams, Normani and Keaton’s awkward flirting and figuring out how you and Lucy are going to spend New Year’s together in Barcelona, there’s no space left to reflect on what happened between you and Camila.

That doesn’t mean you don’t think about it, though.

In fact, it’s _all_ you think about.

The slightest touch of her fingers on your skin is enough to make you feel like you’re going crazy. Any time you’re with the two of you, behind a closed door somewhere, it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to let yourself get carried away further and further.

No matter how impossibly heated each and every one of your interactions keeps getting, you’re always left wanting _more_.

//

Camila’s eyes find yours and you hold her gaze from across the theatre foyer during the networking party after your Christmas Eve performance.

Some artistic director of some company is trying to talk to you about something, but you’re not listening. All you notice is the short black dress she’s wearing, the way her hair is curled to perfection, the way she keeps wetting her lips subconsciously, the fucking addictive glint in her eyes that has got you thinking about nothing but how close she got to slipping her hand in your panties in the locked dressing room before the show, right before you got rudely interrupted by someone knocking on the door.  

The artistic director makes another comment, but Camila winks at you from the other side of the room and his words go straight over your head.

You don’t even notice that he’s left, until someone else suddenly pulls on your arm and spins you around.

“Lo,” Normani snaps, “Keaton just asked me if I want to come over to his room.”

It takes you a second to switch your attention to your roommate, but Normani doesn’t have time for your slow reaction.

“ _Lauren_.”

“Wait, he wants you to come over to his room? Now?” You say, before the meaning of her words hits you and you can’t help but add, “Ew – gross. I don’t actually want to know.”

She gives you hard look. “Oh, fuck off – you and Brad were the absolute worst and you know it. Besides, I’m not going to – I don’t think I even…” Her panic kicks in again. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do right now.” She shakes your shoulders. “Should I go? Should I not go? Fuck, I have to decide _now_.”

You open your mouth, but before you can even respond, Normani says, “Maybe I should just go. Or should I not?”

You shrug, again trying to answer, but in all of a second, Normani seems to have made up her mind, when she says, “All right – I’m just going to go. Don’t even say anything. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Then, she’s gone.

With a grin, you turn around again, only to feel like all the oxygen gets sucked right out of your lungs, because Camila is still staring at you, hand on her hip, completely uninterested in whatever nonsense Judy Weiss is trying to talk to her about.

Heat rushes through your body at the look in her eyes.

You can’t help yourself.

“Excuse me,” you say, as soon as you’ve made your way over. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Judy Weiss’s eyes go wide in excitement at the fact that she has the two of you right in front of her all of a sudden, but before she can start another monologue, your eyes lock right into Camila’s, as you breathe out, “Camz, can you come help me out with something for a second?”

The throaty way she says _of course, Laur_ is the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

//

It happens like this:

You’re standing in front of your bed, in your dorm, on Christmas Eve, while everyone else in the entire school is still in the theatre foyer – and Camila unzips your dress and presses kisses right down your spine, making your body burn from the inside out.

The fabric falls to the floor and you step out of it, bringing your hands to her face, kissing her hotly, before hooking your fingers around the zipper of her dress, sliding it down her body too. You shamelessly trace your eyes over the red fabric of her bra.

The heat between your half-naked bodies is already almost too much to handle – but you still want more.

Camila smiles in your mouth when you unclasp her bra and drop it on the floor. For a second your hands linger over her skin, and you hesitate to touch her. But then she pushes you back on the bed, and climbs right into your lap without a shred of insecurity. Your spine arches against her, while her fingers tangle in your hair, before she moves her hands down to your bra and takes it off too.

Camila presses her mouth against your skin right under your collarbone. It’s taking so much concentration to keep your breathing even. When she kisses you deeply, you shiver under her fingers and you can’t help but moan out softly.

“Laur,” Camila breathes against your lips, then, before bringing her mouth down to your neck to kiss along the column of your throat.

“Yeah?” you say, completely breathless.  

“Have you done this before?”

You fall still for a moment, but then you nod, even though it’s not true. It’s never felt like _this_ before.

“With that guy?” Camila says. “With Brad?”

You nod again.

There’s a shift in her eyes – something slightly vulnerable – when she breathes out, “… and – and with a girl?”

You pause. The moment tenses. You feel heated all over. You think of Lucy, of always denying the reality of what happened between you. You still can’t bring yourself to fully admit to it, not even with girl in your lap who’s almost naked, not even now.

So instead, you lock your eyes right into Camila’s gaze and counter softly, “Have you done this before?”

Camila shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

It makes your pulse race in your veins. She smiles. “But I want to.”

She kisses you hard then, and grabs your hand, bringing it right between her legs, sure and confident, pushing your fingers right to the fabric of her panties. You gasp into her mouth – and everything becomes a blur. 

It happens like this:

Everything is a little messy, a little uncertain – panties slipped down trembling legs, hungry kisses, nervous touches – messy and uncertain, but so hot and so sweet and so _good._

It’s this. This moment. Nothing between your bodies.

You keep melting into Camila’s touch, keep feeling your heart speed up and slow down, with the way your bodies shift into different rhythms. You’re so turned on that you come almost as soon as Camila slips her fingers inside of you, which you’re completely embarrassed about, but she kisses your cheekbones and smiles into your neck and says, “You’re fucking sexy,” which makes your stomach flip all over again, so maybe it’s ok.

Camila’s got goosebumps all over her skin when you roll her over then and bring your thigh between hers. She hooks her leg around yours and arches against you, keeping you pressed close to her while she moans softly into your collarbone. Then, she leads your hand between your bodies and you try not to die when you feel her. She’s breathless and brave and it’s the most intimate thing, to touch her like this. It’s the most intimate thing to hear the moan on her lips when her body tenses all at once and then loosens against you.

There’s a moment, right after, when Camila brushes her lips against your jaw and you suddenly realize that you haven’t felt even the slightest simmer of panic about it. You’re lying naked in bed with a girl on Christmas Eve, on the fourth floor of a classical ballet academy – and you actually, genuinely think that maybe the worst of your panic is finally over.

(You’ve got no idea how much worse things are still going to get.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> How was that? Tell me what you think!! I always love reading your thoughts in the comments.   
> I hope you all have a wonderful day wherever you are in the world. :) Take good care of yourselves. 
> 
> -Blake


	5. the second year | january - march

She’s the lead in your favorite ballet; the virgin who danced herself to death in order for the spring to begin. _Le Sacre du Printemps_ is the wildest thing you know. There are no birds singing in this music, no soft winds blowing around meadows, no gurgling streams in the imagined spring within the walls of the London Royal Opera House.

This is the rawness of human passion, the stretch of impulse, the wry fight of growth and expansion, panicked fear within the very cells of life. It’s a scandal. It’s a riot. It’s the closest thing to your heart. 

The closest thing to your heart – and Camila dances it, brings it to life.  

:::

**january**

:::

Lucy kisses you on New Year’s Eve.

She’s drunk on cheap tequila shots that older guys in the Spanish bar have been gladly handing her in the past two hours, and about a minute after midnight, she stumbles off the bar and wraps her arms around your neck and kisses you. It lasts for all of three seconds – the taste of liquor stronger than anything else, even stronger than the panic you feel at the fact that you’re in public – and then she falls against you and giggles in your neck.

“You’re so pretty, Lo,” she says, a little slurred, “I just want to kiss you sometimes.”

For some ridiculous reason, the most socially inept part of you decides that this is the right moment to say it.

“I’ve slept with Camila.”

Lucy stumbles into you. “You _what_?”

Your head is spinning on one _mojito_ too many. Someone is loudly singing _Hips Don’t Lie_ right next to you. You’ve got Lucy’s arms around your neck and you’re blushing harder than you’ve ever blushed in your entire life at the thought of Camila in your bed, soft under your body, kissing up your neck, fingers dancing between your legs—

Lucy’s eyebrows shoot up at the expression on your face. “Are you fucking serious?”

The alcohol is pushing you past your inhibitions, so you nod, biting your lip. Her eyes go wide in excitement and then she squeals so loudly that everyone in the entire bar turns to look at you, right before she grabs your face between her hands and kisses you again.

“Oh – fuck,” she slurs into your mouth, breaking away quicker than you could have pushed her off you if you’d tried, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I can’t kiss you. You have a girlfriend now!”

_What the fuck._

Your stomach clenches hard and before you can stop yourself you lash out, “Fuck, Lucy, _no._ I don’t have a girlfriend. How many fucking times do I need to tell you – _I’m not gay._ ”

The excitement fades from Lucy’s eyes and she stares at you, slight frown in her eyebrows, the alcohol slowing her reaction, making it impossible for you not to notice the shift – the way she bites her lip, the way she parts her mouth, looks like she wants to tell you something, but then seems to decide against it.

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, Lucy’s lipstick leaving stains on your skin that sting like the stress in your veins, the anxiety in your stomach.

_Fucking hell._

She better make sure that none of your other friends go talk around about her kissing you like that in the middle of a bar.

(New Year – same old story.)

//

You never really fight with Lucy, so it takes you a little while to notice that something is even off between the two of you. With your hangovers clouding your mind, you spend the first day of January lying on the couch at Lucy’s parents’ place, watching reruns of Sean’s season of _The Bachelor_ , drinking smoothies and not talking much.

It’s not until you mumble _this is ridiculous, Desiree is obviously way hotter than Lindsay_ that Lucy scoffs very loudly, and you kind of frown at her.

“What?” you say, feeling your stomach twist at the expression on her face.

Lucy scoffs again, keeping her eyes on the screen. “Are you kidding me?”

You don’t really know what she’s talking about, but there’s something in her voice that has got you feeling on edge right away.

“Uh—” you say, “No – what?”

Lucy rolls her eyes and sighs. “Forget it, Lo…”

You shift against the pillows of the couch and swallow hard, _The Bachelor_ completely forgotten as the tension in your stomach increases by the second. “No, tell me. What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Lucy turns to look at you.

“All right,” she snaps. “You want to hear my thoughts? Here are my thoughts.” Her eyes narrow for a moment, and then she bites out, rather harshly, “I don’t know for how much longer you expect me to play this game with you, ok? It’s getting ridiculous.”

You’re still not catching on. “What game—”

“Your whole I’m-not-into-girls game!” Lucy snaps.

It feels like a slap in your face.

You open your mouth, but Lucy is quicker. “No, Lauren, you _are_ into girls, goddamnit. Stop denying it. You are into girls because you had sex with Camila and you had sex with me too, in case you forgot. You had sex with me too, even if you don’t fucking think it counts!”

Something shifts in her eyes and her voice cracks and it burns in your throat, the way she looks so _hurt_ all of a sudden, but then she takes a breath and adds, a little calmer, “— and I know that it doesn’t mean anything for your sexuality, but for God’s sake, Lo, you _just_ said that you think Desiree is much hotter than Lindsay. You _casually_ said it, like it’s nothing… and – I just don’t understand why you can’t just acknowledge the reality of your feelings. You’re not gay. Fine. But stop lying to yourself about not being into girls. Stop making this something we can never talk about.”

Your breathing has gone completely ragged. You stare at the TV instead of at Lucy’s eyes and your jaw is clenched so tight that it hurts. You don’t say anything.

Lucy sighs. “You know, I understand that you don’t want to scream it from the rooftops. I really understand.” She shifts on the couch. “But I’m your best friend, Lo. I’m your best friend and I’ve had you naked in my bed, and still you keep acting like I wouldn’t get it, like these aren’t thoughts that we can talk about.”

You swallow hard, clench your fingers together. There’s a hot, racing static in your ears. You close your eyes and then you breathe out, “It didn’t mean anything…”

At that, Lucy’s eyes narrow. Her voice is cold when she says, “What – with me? Or with Camila?”

You don’t know how to answer that, so you stay quiet.

Lucy waits for another moment, before exhaling slowly – heavy and tired – and getting to her feet. She walks to the kitchen and fills her glass with water, taking slow sips, leaning back against the kitchen island. Then she fills her glass again. When she gets back to the couch, she doesn’t say anything, but she hands you the water and your heart aches, because you’re being so completely _impossible_ and still, she does stuff like this.

With trembling lips you mumble, “Thank you.”

Lucy looks at you, and then she says, “I’ll shut up about it after this, because I don’t want to ruin the few days I get to spend with you, but here’s the thing, Lo—” She pauses for a moment, waiting until you finally look up to meet her eyes, and then she says, “You better take a moment to think about which people in your life you’re going to use as experiments – God knows, not everyone is going to forgive you for not acknowledging the fact that you slept with them.”

The words slam into your heart like icicles – and not even the shameful heat inside your body is enough to thaw them, so they stay.

//

It feels like you blink once, twice, and then you’re back in New York.

Camila smiles at you from the other side of the studio when you walk in on the first day of the second semester, but your fight with Lucy is fresh in your memory, and so you let your eyes linger on her for only a moment, before making your way over to Keaton instead, trying not to pay any attention to her.

You think it’s the right thing to do, because Lucy’s _you better take a moment to think about which people in your life you’re going to use as experiments_ is still echoing in your mind, so you think that if you just pretend nothing is going on, nothing will be going on.

Of course, it doesn’t work like that.

For some reason, your good intensions always backfire, one way or another.

//

Camila pulls you into the girls’ bathroom after class, and before you can say anything, she kisses you dizzy against the door.

“Hey,” she breathes out, after a moment, leaning her forehead against yours. She smiles, and then she mumbles, as if she’s a little surprised by it herself, “I kind of missed you.”

She says it like it’s a thing – like this is something you do now; miss each other.

It cuts right through you because you just _ignored_ her for two hours straight, and yet, she doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to want anything else but for you to pick up right where you left off, with her hands in your hair and your fingers low on her stomach.   

It slams hard against your conscience. It slams right against Lucy’s warning in the back of your mind.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe you should talk first. Maybe you should—

Camila presses her mouth right to the skin of your neck, below the corner of your jaw, and your body melts into hers outside of your control. She runs her fingers over your breasts, and grins against your skin when she feels your nipples harden against her palms.

“Hm,” she says with a slightly teasing smile. “Feels like you kind of missed me too, Laur.”

You kiss her before she can say anything else. You press her back into the wall, and swallow her moans with your mouth – brushing her comment, and any truth that may lie in it, to the furthest spot in your mind.

The second Camila pushes her fingers into your shorts, all intentions of _doing the right thing_ and _maybe you should talk_ leave your body at once.

//

Another thing that slips your mind is the oldest law in the universe:

The higher the climb, the harder the fall. 

// 

You didn’t _miss_ her, of course – not like that.

You missed her fingers on your bare hips. You missed the way her back arches against you when you breathe into her ear. You missed the sound she makes from the back of her throat when you run your palms over her breasts.

You missed watching her dance; when the light is reflected in her eyes, and it’s just the two of you in some theatre or studio, and not even the music knows how to keep up with her.

That’s all.

//

Soon, the days of January start to blur into one another.  

You’re continuously sleep-deprived, sore and unfocused. The rehearsals for _Giselle_ kick off in the second week, which means your free time thins to its ultimate minimum. With classes, solos, school work and rehearsals, there is not much space for any other things. You haven’t seen your dad in, like, a month; Taylor and Chris are getting sick of you cancelling on them, and it’s become nearly impossible to fit Keaton, Normani or Lucy in between everything else.

—and then there’s Camila.

You’re trying so very hard to be discreet about it, but you can’t stop staring at her during your classes, can’t stop blushing whenever her fingers touch yours on the barre, can’t stop thinking about what her skin feels like against you.

You don’t have the space of mind to make sense of it all.

What you do have, are a couple of moments.

//

You know that it’s only a matter of time, but still, Keaton’s question knocks the breath out of you.

“So,” he says, when you’re in the library trying to study for your first history exam of the semester, “How’s project ‘Figure It Out’ going?”

You almost choke on your orange juice. “What?”

He looks at you and then says, very clearly, “How’s everything between you and Camila?”

“ _Fucking hell—_ ” you swear, panic exploding in your veins at his words. “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.”

Keaton raises his eyebrows, because it’s eleven at night and you’re the only two people in the entire library at the moment, but then he says, “You’re not answering the question, Junior.”

You can feel yourself blushing. You know that he can see it on your face, but your shame pushes you to try and deflect, anyway. “There’s… it’s nothing. Nothing is going on.” 

“You sure?” Keaton looks like he doesn’t believe a single word of it.

You nod. “Yeah, I mean – uh – really, nothing. I – I figured it all out.”

At that, Keaton grins. “Oh, so you’re hooking up with her now?”

“ _What—_ ” you snap. “That’s just – how are you even – why would you – _what_ – that’s… No. Keaton, no. Not at all.”

He grins at you, before leaning slightly forward. “Lo, you’re the worst liar in the world.”

Your blush intensifies even more. “Oh my God…” you breathe out. “Can we stop talking about this already?”

Keaton is quick to counter. “Why?”

“Because,” you snap. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not gay, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you. Not with anyone. Why is that so fucking hard to understand?”

Keaton sighs, but then he nods, “All right. Fine. It’s up to you.” Then he adds with a grin, “I must say that it all makes sense now, though.”

“What?”

His smile curls wider. “Why you’re suddenly a lot more pleasant to be around these days. I’m sure Camila has it all _figured out_ too—”

He only has about a second to dodge the history book that you try to throw against the side of his head.

//

“I want to do something with you.”

Camila pulls you over to center stage and then hands you one of her iPod ear buds.

“What—”

“I downloaded new music last night,” she says, pulling you down onto the floor with her. “I thought we could listen to it – pick songs for our new solos.”

She already moves to lie down on her back and then pats the floor right next to her, as if it’s the most logical thing, to lie on the stage of an empty theatre and listen to music together. “Come here.”

There’s a strange flutter in your stomach when you lie down next to her and put the ear bud in your ear. You’re staring right into the spotlights when Camila says “You ready?” and then she presses play and you turn to look at her instead.

It’s something new. Her face is inches from yours. She kisses you in the breaks between the lyrics, while it feels like the time slows down and speeds up with the exact beats of the different songs.

At some point, she whispers against your lips, “I want to dance to all these songs with you, you know”, and you can try as hard as you like, but there’s no stopping the way your body heats up right as she says it.

//

You’ve got biology and Professor Daniels is discussing female anatomy which has got the whole glass giggling over their notes. Camila catches your eye from the other side of the room, tugs her bottom lip back with her teeth and then mouths _wanna study together_ at you – making your pulse shoot right through the fucking roof.

//

She keeps kissing you. She keeps locking the doors and pulling your clothes off and burning fire into your skin with every single touch. She keeps moaning into your shoulder. She keeps melting into your body.

You’re all over her and you’re not thinking about it and you’re not talking about it and it works.

—and then there’s a shift.

:::

**february**

:::

“Pay attention, Lauren…” she mumbles.

You’re _trying_. You’re really trying, because your contemporary solo is nowhere near what it needs to be for evaluations. But it’s not your fault that the music is making your head feel hot like a fever. It’s not your fault that Camila’s hands are all over you – pressing into the points of your shoulders where you need to relax more, stroking over your skin in an attempt to loosen your muscles, trying to flow the choreography into your body.

“Lauren.”

“I’m trying.”

You sound completely breathless. Camila notices it right away. She brushes her fingers over your throat, feeling it bob when you swallow hard. It makes her smile. She hovers with her lips over yours for a moment, softly, teasingly, and then she brings her mouth right up to your ear and whispers, “Seems like you’re not trying hard enough.”

_God._

It’s making your entire body tense. Camila traces her fingers right over the inside of your forearm, right over your pulse which is almost jumping out of your skin. Your eyes flutter closed and you can feel your body falling into her, chasing her touch, chasing her heat—

_Screw your contemporary solo._

As if she’s heard your thoughts, Camila pushes herself abruptly off of you, the sudden lack of heat making your eyes fly open. She takes a couple of steps back, quickly creating distance between you. There’s a heavy blush spreading on your cheeks and down your neck when Camila traces her eyes over you, smiling smugly. “Damn – you’re so unfocused, Laur…”

You can’t decide if you want to jump on top of her to strangle her or to kiss her.

“Camz,” you murmur, your voice rough with pent-up frustration. It’s barely a whisper over the music when you breathe out, “You need to stop looking at me like that.”

She tilts her head sideways, spreading her arms as she leans back against the barre, challenging you with her eyes, her smile, with her entire _body_. “Like what?”

_As if she doesn’t know._

As if she doesn’t know that you’re _this_ close to pushing her right up against the wall and make her moan so loudly for you that the entire fucking school—

The door of the studio opens and your heart shoots up in your throat.

The unsuspecting first year stares in confusion at the two of you for all of five seconds, before quickly mumbling an apology and closing the door behind him again – and all your panic explodes in your veins at once.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you swear.

“Lauren—” Camila says, already walking up to you. “He didn’t see any—”

“Fuck off,” you snap, slapping her hand away before she can put it on your shoulder. “Fuck off, goddamnit.” She stares at you, but you lash out, before you can stop yourself, “What if he thinks – what if he’s going to – damn it, _I’m not fucking gay._ ”

Camila sighs hard. “Don’t be like that again.”

“You don’t understand,” you bite out, and then, because you can’t help yourself anymore, you try to make _sure_ she understands, speaking before you think about it. “This doesn’t mean anything. What we’re doing. It doesn’t mean a fucking thing – and I can’t have people thinking that – _fuck_ , we’re nothing. We’re nothing, Camila.”

She stares at you. The tension spikes and then she says, “You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure,” you snap, ignoring the way the words burn in the back of your throat.  

“Ok,” she says. “Ok, Lauren.”

It feels like you’re on opposite sides of the studio, even though there are only a couple of feet between you. You stumble backwards, because it’s not enough. There’s not enough space between you, because all you want to do is pull her into you and kiss your apology into her mouth, before she really believes you, before she thinks that you really—

You can’t, though. You can’t and so you leave.

The more distance the better.

//

You stay away from her for almost two weeks and then – on fucking Valentine’s Day – Austin asks Camila out.

He does it in the studio, in front of everyone, right after your classical morning rehearsal. He plays some stupid song for her on a guitar and then he hands her a single red rose and says “Will you go out on a date with me?” and everyone starts clapping and whistling and all you can think is _who the fuck gave this kid a guitar_.

For a second, Camila’s eyes flick over to you, but then she smiles politely at Austin and says, “Yes, sure” and Austin walks over to hug her, and everyone’s still clapping, until your mother breaks the moment by shouting at all of you to leave the studio and get to your classes.

_We’re nothing._

You said it yourself. She has every right to go out with anyone she wants to go out with. She’s not your girlfriend. She’s nothing to you – just like you wanted.

Keaton’s eyes are on you the entire time, but you ignore him.

//

You stop spending time alone with Camila, and you try to tell yourself that it’s a good thing.

It’s a good thing because if you’re not together, no one can walk in on you and get the wrong idea about what’s going on between the two of you.

You don’t have time for it anyway.

There’s _Giselle_ and there’s ballet evaluations and there’s the fact that your school grades are dropping more and more with every exam you take, not matter how many hours you spend studying in the library, no matter how often Normani goes through your math exercises together with you.

You stop spending time alone with Camila, so you try not to notice that something’s going on with her. You try not to notice that she’s more absent than not these days, try not to notice how your mother asks her to stay after class almost every single day.

It’s not like you care about the fact that you’ve fallen to fourth place in contemporary, without her help. It’s not like you care that her classical solos look completely un-choreographed every single time.

It’s not like you care that she’s with Austin.

Not even when you watch him kiss her against the door of the studio – light and happy and right in front of everyone.

//

The confrontation is inevitable, though – and it happens like this:

You catch your mother handing Camila a fifty dollar bill at the end of the hallway, and you know it’s none of your business but it’s _money_ and it makes your throat feel tight with sudden worry, so you can’t really stop yourself. Camila disappears into the girls’ bathroom and you slip in after her, before the door has even fallen closed.

“What was that about?” you say.

It’s the first thing you’ve said to her in weeks.

She’s leaning with her hands on the sink, pale and tired, staring at her reflection instead of looking at you. You expect her to tell you to fuck off, to say that it’s none of your business, that she doesn’t even know what you’re talking about. But instead, her eyes catch on yours in the mirror and she says, voice flat, “I can’t pay for the subway anymore.”

The tight feeling in your throat intensifies. “What – what do you mean?”

She turns to look at you and then says, completely emotionless, “I can’t pay for the subway anymore – that’s what I mean, Lauren. That’s it. I can’t pay for the subway, because my dad got fired two months ago and we’re running out of money.”

You stare at her, your breathing a little shaky.

“If I can’t pay for the subway, I can’t go to class,” Camila adds. “So I’m borrowing the money.”

“From my mother,” you mumble.

Camila nods, face still expressionless. “She offered me a month ago already, but things weren’t that bad then. But now…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, and you don’t know what to say. Your mind is spinning. Your throat is making it near impossible to breathe. “I – I – fuck, Camz… I didn’t know.”

All her non-emotion shifts into anger at once.

“No, of course you didn’t know, Lauren.” She slams her hand down on the sink. “You don’t know these kind of things, because you never bother to ask. You don’t know because you’re always too caught up in your own fucking world to even _think_ about the fact that there might be things going on in other people’s lives!”

Her voice cracks and she brings her hands up to her hair, as if she’s suddenly taken aback by her own outburst.

“Fuck,” she swears, leaning back against the wall, her voice trembling with a mix of panic and embarrassment. “ _God_ – I don’t know… I don’t how the hell I’m ever going to figure this out…”

“Camila—”

At the sound of her name on your lips, she breaks, right in front of you. “I _hate_ this,” she lashes out. “I really fucking hate that I can’t get my shit together. I hate needing everyone’s help. I got to borrow my neighbor’s bike for a while, but then it broke and now I have no other choice but to fucking scramble for pennies, borrowing money from your _mother_ , for fuck’s sake.” She’s trembling, tears burning in her eyes. “God – I’m so fucking selfish. My dad’s unemployed and I’m dancing at the most expensive ballet school in the whole of New York City instead of actually getting a job and helping my family out and—”

You move forward to pull her against you because you can’t stop yourself, but it’s oil to the fire, because she pushes you away so harshly that your back hits the other side of the bathroom, right as she bites out, “Oh, fuck off! I don’t need your sympathy. We’re _nothing_ , right?”

The air is tense with so many different things. Your breathing is unsteady and Camila’s got tears in her eyes and you think that you can see the vague mark of a hickey on the column of her throat that you didn’t make and it makes your entire chest sting—

She steps forward and kisses you.

Hands in your hair, mouth burning – quick and heated, clawing at your heart to make you _feel_ it – and then she breaks away and leaves the bathroom before you can do anything else.

//

When you walk in on Camila making out with Austin in front of the theatre entrance ten minutes later, you feel sick to your stomach and you turn around, text Keaton and hope you can make it over to his room before you pass out.

His eyes go wide as he takes in the expression on your face, and then even wider when you stumble against him and choke out, “Can we talk about it now?”

He lets you in and you talk.

//

You’re so upset that you just ramble on and don’t really register much of the conversation, except when Keaton says, “Maybe you should stop all of this, Lo. You know – before either one of you is going to get seriously hurt.”

You look up at the blue of his eyes and it’s the truth when you breathe out, “I don’t even know how to stop, anymore…”

:::

**march**

:::

Your mother is the one to mention that it’s Camila’s birthday.

It’s Saturday morning and you’re sitting at the breakfast table with Chris and Taylor and your mother is reading the paper and all of a sudden she says, “Oh, it’s the third of March – that’s Camila’s birthday, isn’t it?”

She looks at you like you’re supposed to know and you scoff, before kind of frowning at yourself because maybe you _are_ supposed to know.

Your mother leaves it at that, though, but for the entire morning you’re not able to get the thought out of your head that it’s Camila’s birthday. You keep thinking about what she’s doing, if she’s celebrating it or not, if anyone has gotten her any presents…

You stare at her name in your contact list and you think about texting her _happy birthday_ , but as soon as the thought pops into your head, you push it down again, because it’s ridiculous. You’ve got no reason to text her.

But then an even more ridiculous thought crosses your mind. It’s a simmer, a slight hunch towards a crazy idea.

You try to spin it out of your head by practicing your _pirouettes_ in your bedroom over and over again, but it won’t leave.

“Are you all right?”

Taylor is standing in the doorway, looking at you with a slight frown on her face.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Of course, Tay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Your twelve year old sister leans against the doorpost and then says, “You seem really restless.”

You take a deep breath and run a hand through your hair, leaning against the barre. You stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment – at your heated cheeks and messy hair and unfocused eyes.

Before you can stop yourself, you turn around to your sister and say, “Do you want to go do something in the city together with me?”

The way your sister’s face lights up is enough to make you forget all about the fact that you’re about to go to buy a birthday present for Camila even though you’re currently caught up in the worst fight you’ve ever had.  

//

“I think she’ll love it,” Taylor says, the biggest smile on her face. “It’s a really cool present, Lo.”

Hanging out with your sister always softens your heart, so you try to smile through your nerves as the two of you navigate through busy Brooklyn. “Yeah, you think?”

Taylor nods. “Definitely.”

She wraps her arm around your waist and leans into your side while you continue waling, and then she suddenly says, almost impulsively, “I miss you.”

Her voice is so quiet that you can barely hear it over the busy traffic – but you hear it nevertheless. It cuts right through your chest. You bite your lip hard. “You miss me?”

“Yes,” Taylor nods. “You’re always at school. I understand. You have to train a lot to be a ballerina. _Giselle_ is not just any show.” She sounds just like your mother, she sounds like she’s saying your mother’s words instead of her own, as if she’s been hearing nothing but those sentences lately. Her voice is a little shaky, when she adds, “But sometimes it feels like Chris and I are just with the two of us.”

It knocks all the oxygen out of your lungs. It takes you a moment, and then you say, “I’m sorry. I miss hanging out with you too. I promise I’ll try to be home a little more often, ok?”

Taylor smiles at you. “That’s ok. You don’t have to say sorry. I’m just happy we’re together now.”

You pull her into you a little closer and you try to breathe through the burning feeling behind your eyes. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t even notice you’ve already passed Camila’s apartment building until Taylor says “When are we going to be there?” and you suddenly realize you have to walk back.

“Does she know we’re coming?” your sister says when you’re in front of the door and your heart speeds up right away, because you hadn’t really thought about _this_ part yet.

“Uh – no,” you mumble. “I – I actually don’t even know if she’s home.”

Taylor gives you a soft smile. “Let’s just ring the bell, then.”

“Right.”

You cough, stalling a little bit longer by pretending you have to search for the doorbell, but then you’ve got no choice but to just ring it.

“Hello?”

Your heart almost gives out at the sound of her voice.

“Hi,” you blurt out. “Happy birthday.”

She doesn’t say anything, so you quickly add, “It’s – uh – it’s Lauren. I’m standing outside your building right now—” _Obviously._ “I – uh – I have something for you. Can I come up?”

She stays quiet. She stays quiet for so long that you’re starting to feel embarrassed in front of your sister, but then finally Camila says “Ok”, and the door buzzes open.

Taylor helps you carrying the present up the stairs. You absentmindedly realize that carrying it up is kind of a stupid idea, because if she’s actually going to use it she’ll just have to carry it down again – but you’re too nervous to think logistics at the moment. Thankfully, the frame is not too heavy.

By the time you reach her floor, your hands are so sweaty that you have to wipe them on your jeans and you’re pretty sure that even Taylor can hear your heart pounding in your chest. But Camila already knows that you’re here, so there’s no way back now.

You knock and she opens the door and then her eyes go wide as she stares at you and at Taylor and at the present between the two of you that has a large blue bow wrapped right around its frame and—

“Happy birthday,” you mumble, pushing the bicycle forward. “I – uh – I got you a present.” 

Her mouth parts and she doesn’t say anything, just looks at you like you’re _fucking crazy_ , which you probably are, and then she breathes out, “You got me a bike?”

You feel like you’re burning right out of your skin. “Yeah – uh – you said that your neighbor’s bike broke, and I thought – I don’t know – I know we haven’t really…talked. But I thought it would help with getting around the city… You know, to go to class and stuff – so you won’t have to worry about—”

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat because Camila’s hand flies up to her mouth and her breath hitches and then she stumbles forward and wraps her arms around your neck and hugs you close.

The most unexpected relief floods right through your chest and you realize you’d been expecting her to freak out or tell you to fuck off right in front of your sister or slap you right in your face because _this_ is not the kind of thing you do for each other – but she hugs you and the only thing you register is the way she pulls you close, so you think you’re ok.

“Oh my God,” she breathes against your neck. “You are fucking _insane_.”

She pulls back and stares at the bike like it’s the most alien thing she’s ever seen. Her fingers trace right over the red and silver of the frame, over the brakes and the gears, over the celebratory bow.

“Laur…” she mumbles, suddenly a little panicked. “I can’t take this. It’s ridiculous. You’re – You didn’t even – I don’t think I—” She’s rambling through her sentences as the reality of the situation seems to hit her. “You have to take it back. I can’t – it’s too much.”

“But it’s a present,” Taylor says. “You can’t give a present back once it’s given.”

At that, Camila turns to your sister. Her expression shifts a little, as if she suddenly realizes that you’re not just with the two of you. Before saying anything else, Camila walks over and hugs Taylor close to her. Your heart flutters unexpectedly at the sight.

“Hey,” Camila says then when she breaks away, a little breathless, “You’re Taylor, right?”

Taylor nods and then blurts out, “I saw you at the Christmas Eve show – you were _so_ good. I could only look at you.”

“Hey,” you say, the relief in your veins making it easier to joke as you push your sister’s shoulder and fake offense. “What about me?”  

Taylor gives you a bold grin. “Yeah, you were all right – but she was fantastic.”

Camila’s laugh breaks right through the tension. She stares at the both of you, eyes wide as her smile, shaking her head a little as if she still can’t believe it. Then, she breathes out, “Would you like to come in for some cake?”

//

You end up on the roof.

The early March sunshine is not exactly warm yet, but still it feels like the whole world is suddenly lit up. You’re eating cake while Taylor is playing hide and seek with Sofi, which makes you smile because there is nowhere to hide, of course, so Camila’s baby sister tries to duck away behind you most of the time while Taylor pretends not to notice – and after trying to convince her for almost half an hour, Camila finally accepts that you’re not going to take the bike back, and she carries it up to the roof to take it for a test ride.

When she’s at the far end of the rooftop, she brakes hard and then turns her head to smile at you. She’s still smiling when you’ve made your way over until you’re standing right in front of her.

“You’re crazy, Lauren Jauregui,” she says, “Absolutely crazy. I can’t even believe you actually got me a bike.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, “It’s your birthday, so…”

“Come here,” she says and you do, because you’re right in the spot where you really kissed each other for the first time – and she pulls you so close that you get dizzy on her scent.

She brushes her lips against your jaw and you don’t talk about it. You don’t discuss any of it – not how you lashed out at her in the studio, not that she’s dating Austin Mahone now, not the way she kissed you in the girls’ bathroom, not the fact that you got her a bike for her birthday even though you told her she doesn’t mean anything to you.

You don’t talk about it, but the course of March shifts anyway.

// 

She is back against you – dancing, mostly, but also sometimes more than that. It’s different than before, though; a little less wild, a little more shy. You know that she’s dating Austin and she knows that you’re scared to death that anyone will find out. But neither of you can really stay away. There are a lot of moments that happen without either of you brave enough to address _why_ they happen.

There’s the moment Camila comes to watch your première of _Giselle_ and she actually waits outside the artist exit until midnight, just so she can tell you that she thought you were amazing in it.

There’s the moment you spend two hours searching the internet for employment services in New York City and you end up sending Camila an essay-length text with all the things you’ve found that might help her dad out with finding a new job.   

There’s the moment she hands you all of her history notes because she knows you can’t afford to fail your next exam. 

There’s the moment you watch Austin peck Camila’s lips to say goodbye to her and all you want to do is touch her in a way that makes her completely forget about Austin’s stupid face – and so you do. She’s not even a second into the studio, when you push the door closed behind her and press her up against it, kissing her until she’s moaning in your mouth, touching her until she’s trembling under your fingers, making her come so hard that she gasps your name against your shoulder – and you feel so good that you kind of want to do it all over again.  

There’s the moment your mother compliments Camila on her classical solo and Camila doesn’t waste a beat when she says, “Lauren choreographed it”. Your mother smiles so proudly at you that you feel like your heart is going to burst right out of your chest.

There’s the moment right after that moment, when Camila pulls you into her in the locked dressing room and whispers in your ear, “You’re so fucking talented”, which makes your heart race in your chest _even_ harder.

—and then there’s the moment she texts you to come over.

//

It’s the last Saturday of the month. You’re on your bed, trying to get Lucy to pick up on your Skype call, while Keaton is shuffling around your room, impatiently waiting for Normani to be done with her technical private session. His presence is making you a little unfocused so you don’t immediately notice the buzz of your phone in the front pocket of your jeans.

“Pick up…” you mumble as Skype once again fails to connect. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”

“So,” Keaton says, “Who is Lucy, anyway?”

You stare at him.

“What?” he says, a little defensively.

You kink your eyebrow up. “Keaton, you do realize that we have known each other for more than a full year already and we dedicate precious hours to each other _every single day_ – and still, you’re asking me in all seriousness _who is Lucy, anyway_?” You can’t help but laugh. “Do you even listen to a single thing I say?”

Keaton rolls his eyes. “No, I mean – I know she’s your best friend. I just meant, like… You know. What’s she like? What’s the deal with the two of you? What’s the story?”

An involuntary blush rises to your cheek, while you mumble, “The _story_?”

“Yeah,” Keaton says with a smile, “Where is she from? How did you meet? When did you kiss each other for the first time—”

You choke on your own breath. “ _What_ —”

Of course, that very second Skype finally connects and Lucy picks up.

“Hi,” she says.

“H-hey,” you stutter out. “How are you?”

“I’m ok,” she says. “You?”

You nod. Everything is still a little off between the two of you. You haven’t really talked as often as usual since New Year’s, and with _Giselle_ taking up all your time, neither of you made plans to come visit each other during spring break.

You’re about to ask her if she’s doing anything fun this weekend, but before you can say anything, Keaton drops down on the bed next to you and takes a look at your laptop screen.

“Hi, Lucy,” he says with the widest smile, pushing you a little to the side.

Lucy’s expression changes right away. For a moment, her eyebrows rise, but then the corner of her mouth curls upwards, and she runs a quick hand through her hair. Her voice sounds completely different when she says, “Hey… uh – Keaton, right?”

“That’s right,” Keaton says, before adding, easy with conversation as ever, “It’s so great to finally meet my competition for the position of Lauren’s best friend.”

Lucy laughs, and you frown at the two of them.

“So,” you cut in, trying to get Lucy’s attention back on you. “How’s your week—”

Before you even finish your sentence, Keaton interrupts you, by saying brazenly, “I guess when it comes to looks, I’m already falling to second place, though…” 

He winks and you swear you can see Lucy blush at it. You shift right away, staring up at Keaton in shock, because first of all, he’s only _just_ seen her and second of all, as far as you know, he’s still dating _Normani_.

Lucy bites her lip, ignores the expression on your face, and then she says playfully, “I’m definitely lacking in the classical ballet department, though. So I guess we’re both still in the running.”

Your phone buzzes against your hip again and this time you do notice it. Half-distracted by the fact that Lucy and Keaton just carry on their conversation as if you’re not even there, you grab it from your pocket. Tension shoots right down to your stomach when you see Camila’s name flash on your screen. She’s texted you two times.

The first text reads _What are you doing right now?_

The second one reads _Not to be all upfront and direct all of a sudden, but I recorded this really old version of Sleeping Beauty that was on TV three days ago and I’m watching it at home right now, but both my dates (Rowan and Sofi) just fell asleep so now I’m kind of bored because I have no one to ramble to about the pas de quatre in Act III. and I thought maybe if you’re not doing anything, you could come over and watch it together with me. It’s definitely your kind of aesthetic._

You read the words, over and over again – completely zoned out from everything else.

And then she texts you again, making the phone buzz right in the palm of your hand: _In case you’re freaking out right now, it’s not a date._

“… no, she’s too distracted.”

You look up, eyes wide. “What?”

Keaton shoves your shoulder playfully and Lucy smiles at you on your laptop screen. Then, she says casually, “Who texted you, Lo?”

“Uh—” you stammer. “Taylor.” Both of them stare at you, so you quickly add, “Yeah, she asked if I wanted to go to the movies with her – and I told her I wanted to hang out with her more often so I… I think I’ll go. Is that ok?”

Lucy grins. “Well, it was great Skyping with you…”

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying very hard not to blush. “Tomorrow?”

Lucy nods and then turns her attention right back to Keaton. “Good to meet you, partner in crime.”

Keaton smiles. “Right back at you, partner. We should definitely continue the discussion of our strategy another time, yeah?”

_Did you miss something?_

Before you even have time to ask, Lucy waves at the both of you and then she hangs up. You stare at the screen a little bewildered. “What was that all about?”

Keaton just smiles. “Nothing, Junior.”

“What were you talking about? What strategy?”

He pats your head. “If only you had paid attention…”

You scoff and push your elbow in his ribs, making him groan. Then, you close your laptop and make your way over to the bathroom, deciding you’re not going to spend your energy on trying to figure out what they’ve been talking about. Instead, you take you take deciding what to wear, so much time, in fact, that Keaton eventually says, “It’s so nice of you to dress up for your sister.”

You ignore him, taking a deep breath, checking your reflection in the mirror one more time and then you grab your bag.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Sure.”

You smile. “Have fun with Normani.”

“Thanks, Junior.” You’re already out of the door when he calls after you, “Oh, Lo – say hi to Camila for me, will you?”

You bite your lip hard. _Fucking idiot._

//

It’s not a date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

You’re on the couch in Camila’s half-lit apartment, watching an ancient version of _Sleeping Beauty_ , and it’s not a date. Camila’s dad is working his first night shift as a doorman at a hotel in the neighborhood, which is not exactly his field, but it’s better than nothing. Sofi and Rowan are asleep in Sofi’s room, and you’re just with the two of you, but it’s not a date, because even though you’re wearing make-up and your nicest black dress and you can’t stop watching the reflection of the light from the TV on her face, can’t stop yourself from wanting to kiss her, Camila is on the other side of the couch, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and she’s not paying attention to you at all – and so, she wasn’t kidding when she said it wasn’t a date. 

You don’t understand why your heart is pounding in the center of your chest. You don’t understand that you don’t even realize the movie has ended until Camila suddenly turns to you and says, “If you could do it all over, would you still choose ballet?”

You blink hard, suddenly shy from the brown of her eyes. “Sorry, what?”

She smiles at you softly and then leans in a little. “If you got the chance to choose your life again, would you still pick ballet?”

You think about it, let her words vibrate in the center of your chest for a moment, because she’s looking at you like she _really_ wants to know, and so you _really_ want to answer her – even if you have to think about it first.

“I don’t know,” you say eventually. “I’ve never known anything else.”

“How old were you when you started?”

“Two.”

Camila’s eyes go wide. “ _Two_?”

You nod. “What about you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know – seven. Eight, maybe. I don’t really remember. That was just here, though, at home, with my mom. I didn’t have my first proper ballet class until I was twelve.”

It takes you as second to register what she’s saying. You’ve been in professional training since you were _two_ years old and Camila had her first class when she was _twelve_.

You both stare at each other, realizing it at the same time.

“Would you?” you breathe out, then. “Still pick ballet, I mean?”

She nods right away and her smile curls wide. “Oh, yes. In a heartbeat.”

You’re a little taken aback by the certainty in her answer. It causes something hot and pleasant to stir in the center of your chest, something solid and focused, something you’re not exactly used to.

Then, Camila says, “Tell me what it was like.”

“What was what like?”

She smiles softly. “Growing up the daughter of Clara Jauregui. Growing up in ballet studios and on theatre stages. What was it like?”

There’s a part of you that absentmindedly registers that Camila somehow manages to always make you want to answer genuinely. You’ve been asked these kind of questions so often before, by art directors and company dancers and ballet teachers, over and over again, but Camila makes you want to tell the truth.

“It hurt a lot,” you say, the first honest thought that comes to mind. “The endless rehearsals, the private classes, the extra hours at home – it never ended.” You bite your lip. “Sometimes I would try to fight it. Sometimes all I did was scream and rip my leotards into pieces and tear my pointe shoes apart – but she always bought me new ones again.”

You swallow hard, thinking about it for a moment, and then you say, “Actually, that’s not entirely true, though. She didn’t just buy me new stuff. She would buy me new leotards and new shoes and then she would take me to the empty studio and dance with me. The two of us. She’d put on my favorite tracks and spin me around and lift me up, and we’d just dance – until I was smiling again, until I completely forgot about ever wanting to quit.” You take a shaky breath. “So far, it’s always worked.”

Camila is silent. She’s looking at you with something in her eyes that you can’t quite place. Then, she reaches out and interlaces your fingers with hers. You blush and your heart stutters at the movement, but you don’t pull your hand away.

“What about you?” you say, eyes flicking down because the look in her eyes is just a little too much.

Camila squeezes your hand a little tighter. “I always wanted to do everything,” she says. “All at once. I wanted to draw and play soccer and observe bugs and win at softball games and read books and learn how to skateboard and ride my bike and write stories. Everything. All at once.” She smiles a little. “But my mother danced – and that was the one thing I loved more than anything else.”

Her eyes lock right into yours and you suddenly realize that maybe, when it comes down to it, some parts of your lives aren’t all that different.

“What happened to your mom?”

The words have left your mouth before you can take them back. You blush scarlet right away at the look on Camila’s face. “Fuck,” you mumble, “Sorry – I mean, you don’t have to answer that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sorry.”

Camila looks at you and then shifts forward on the couch, shifts a little closer against you. She brings your intertwined fingers to her lips and kisses the back of your hand. “You don’t have to be sorry.” She looks at you and smiles a half-smile, before she says, “She died when I was twelve.”

It clenches in your stomach. “Camz…”

“My dad signed me up for real ballet classes the month after it happened,” Camila says. “I couldn’t breathe after she died. I couldn’t breathe for an entire month and then I could again.”

She looks at you and says, “If there’s ever anything powerful in my dancing, it’s her. It’s the part of me that is my mother, right there in the very air inside my lungs.”

Her eyes are bright with sudden tears when she says it, but she smiles, as if it’s also beautiful. She smiles as if it’s sad, but also beautiful.

She’s a hurricane inside your chest.

“Camz,” you breathe out. “You’re so beautiful.”

It’s not what you’re supposed to say. It’s not the right sentence and it’s not the right timing considering what she just told you, but you can’t help it—

—and then, because the look in her eyes blows right through your entire body, you force the words out of your mouth before your throat closes up for good. “That’s all I see when you dance. I see all of it. All of you.”  

Her breath visibly hitches in her throat, and then she leans forward and kisses you. Her mouth is hot on yours and you can taste the salt of her tears on her tongue and she climbs right into your lap, pulling you close – and you think that this is why storms are named after people.

//

She kisses you into the darkness of her bedroom, before breaking away to drag her shirt right up over her head, taking your breath with a smile and a wink and a red bra strap that is already falling down her shoulder. She wraps her arms around your neck and then breathes into your ear, “Before I’m going to take this dress off of you, I think I forgot to tell you how good you look in it.”

It makes you blush incredibly hard, but then when Camila’s fingers hook around the zipper and she says, “You look even better without clothes, though,” you blush even harder, heat radiating off your body straight into hers.

She zips your dress open, leaves open-mouthed kisses all over your body as she pulls the fabric down inch by inch. Your head is already spinning, so you make quick work of the rest of her clothes, before she completely burns you to the ground with the way she touches you.

The intensity is making it near impossible to breathe. Camila runs her fingers over the insides of your thighs before hooking them around the hem of your panties and pulling them down. With a kiss right on your heart, she unclasps your bra and throws it to the ground.

—and then there’s the bed and you lose yourself completely.

She touches you like you’ve never been touched before.

Your back arches off the mattress and you clench your hands in her bedsheets and she’s all over you, naked and warm and soft and it’s the most delicious thing – her mouth in your neck and her leg between yours and her fingers tracing the longest line down your body, right from your throat over your chest to your stomach, and then over your thighs.

She’s so soft with you that you completely break apart for her, spreading your legs wider with every second.

Camila kisses you deeply, before moving her lips down over your breasts and the plane of your stomach and then she halts, jaw against your hipbone, mouth so close to where you’re burning for her – and yet not close enough. Your hand falls against her cheek and she brushes her lips against it before moving up your body again to look you in the eyes when she says, “Can I kiss you there?”

You gasp for air.

The heaviest shiver runs down your spine at what she’s implying, because _that_ is something you’ve never experienced before and it hits hard against the solid, burning thing in the center of your chest. 

“Do you—” Your throat is so dry that you can barely get the words out. “Do you… want to?”

She licks her lips and smiles, kisses you and then says against your mouth, “Yeah, I want to. I really, really want to. Do you?”

It’s so confident that your skin heats up at her words alone.

“Come here,” you murmur, hooking your arms around her neck and pulling her into you, before moving your hands down to her back and hips. You kiss her so hard that you’re panting when you break away from her, panting when you breathe against her lips, “Yes, I want – I want you…”

You can’t say it, but Camila understands because she kisses you again, on your lips, your throat, your breasts, your stomach and then way lower. You head falls back in her pillow – and it’s a little bit like dancing in the dark. Sex with Camila is a little bit like dancing in the dark, except the thrill of it sinks itself so deeply in your veins that you don’t think you’ll ever come down from it. 

“Camila… _Camz…_ ”

Her name keeps falling from your lips, the beats of the syllables spilling from your mouth into her bedroom, like the beats of your heart. Your mind blanks out and your body tenses and this is the highest high – this is _everything._     

(The oldest law in the universe: the higher the climb, the harder the fall)

//

The panic comes slowly.

Camila’s naked body is wrapped around you in the small bed, her breath hitting against your jaw soft and steady, as she sleeps. You’re getting lightheaded on the scent of her. With shaking fingers, you stroke a strand of her hair behind her ear, before dropping your hand to your chest where you can feel your heartbeat speeding up under your own touch.

The panic comes slowly – sweaty hands, trembling lips, shaky breaths – and then it wraps itself around your throat and fucking chokes you. All at once.

You choke on everything; on being naked and on being with a girl and on being with _her_ and on liking it, on tasting it, on being turned on by it, on wanting it. You choke on letting yourself be so vulnerable. You choke on wanting to stay the night. You choke on the fact that she’s naked against you even though she’s dating Austin. You choke on tears that you’ve been holding back for weeks. You choke on the shivers down your skin. You choke on the feeling of her lips against your jaw like you’re _worthy_ of her mouth on you, even though this part of you makes you feel sick to your stomach, even though you’d want nothing else but to _smother_ the life out of the burning part of your soul that wants nothing but soft skin and hardened nipples and _girls_ —

You’re choking, because you’ve never felt more and less like yourself at the same time.

You’re choking, so you move towards the air. Dizzy and nauseous, with tears streaming down your cheeks, you roll her off of you and slip into your dress, feeling like your lungs are going to rip if you stay here any longer. 

The entire building seems to shake when you make your way down the flights of stairs until you’re finally outside, in the ice cold air, taking breath after breath, before stumbling to the sidewalk and searching for your phone in your pocket.

You’re so panicked and you feel so alone, and you’re in Brooklyn at three in the morning, freaking out because of everything you can’t ever stop yourself from _wanting_ —

—and then you fuck up even more.    

//

Brad tastes nothing like Camila. He tastes like weed and sweat and his hands make you feel so feverish that it’s like you’re breaking right out of your own skin, like you’re breaking right out of your own body – not even yours, anymore.

If this is what you have to do to be straight, you’ll do it.

If this is what you have to do to forget, you’ll do it.

//

Afterwards, he hands you his joint and you inhale as deeply as you can, inhale past the taste of Camila on your lips, past the fever in your throat.

You close your eyes.

Brad says, “I missed you.”

You blow the words out of your lungs along with the smoke. “What would you say if I told you I’ve been having sex with a girl?”

Brad stares at you. His eyes are tinged red from the weed and you can see the bob of his throat as he swallows hard, right before chuckling. “I’d say ‘That’s hot’ and ‘Can I watch next time?’”

It hurts so much. It hurts so fucking much.

“Brad,” you say, and he looks at you, for a moment uncertain, for a moment taking in your expression with the slightest frown on his face as if he can hear the truth in your voice. You climb into his lap before he can comment on it.

You spread your legs wide for him like the straight girl you are – and you hope that somewhere along the way he’ll fuck the hurt right out of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Sorry for all the pain. I know you all secretly love it, though, so please don't hate me. :)  
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know how you feel about the story/characters/plot development so far.  
> I love to hear your thoughts. Also, if you have any favorite lines, let me know :)
> 
> On a different note, I know I'm supposed to be updating 'right there in the details' and I'm definitely working on that. I just wanted to let you know that it might take a while, because I'm shifting a couple of things around, which is why I kind of have to rewrite what I wrote. I'll try my best to update as soon as I can, though.
> 
> Hope you all have a lovely day! Thanks for reading. You're the best!  
> -Blake


	6. the second year | april - june

If _Le Sacre Du Printemps_ has taught you anything, it’s that some things are so forceful that you couldn’t stop them if you tried. Watching it now, seated in the London Royal Opera House, you’re reminded of it once again.

You couldn’t stop it, if you tried.

Not now. Not then.

:::

**april**

:::

You’ve got a show to dance.

There’s a low drumming in your ears when you wake up. Brad’s arm is heavy on your stomach, his skin too hot and sticky against yours. You slowly push him off, careful not to wake him up, and then you stumble through his messy room into the bathroom. As soon as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your stomach clenches painfully and the next thing you know you’re on your knees in front of the toilet, throwing up.  

You can’t even look at yourself.

After you’ve finally stopped shaking, you pour water into a glass and bring it to your lips. It cleans your mouth but not your body, so you make yourself step into the shower, closing your eyes and trying not to think as you force Brad’s shower gel into your skin. The scent of it makes you feel worse.  

You slip back into your black dress – taken off of you two times in the past eight hours – ignoring how the fabric on your skin makes you feel dirty and uncomfortable.

You leave, before Brad wakes up. 

The city is like a maze, a contradictory mess of people’s different lives mashing together; some only just leaving the clubs, drunkenly stumbling home, shoes in their hands, some already on their way to Sunday brunch, all dressed up and sparkling.

When you walk into your dorm room, Normani is on her bed reading a book. As soon as her gaze falls on you, it’s like she senses it, because her eyes go wide and she says, “Lo…” and you feel like you’re falling, like you’re going to pass out, but Normani jumps up and catches you, right before you hit the floor.  

“Hey,” she says, pulling you onto her bed and stroking the hair out of your eyes. Her voice is thick with worry. “Are you ok? What’s going on? What happened?”

“I had sex with Brad,” you gasp out.

You want to say _I had sex with Camila and then I had sex with Brad_ – but you can’t. Your throat won’t let you.

Normani stares at you, something in her expression that you’ve never really seen before. “Did he hurt you?”

You can’t talk. You can’t say anything.

You ripped your throat trying to moan yourself straight last night.

Normani strokes her hand over your cheek. “Lo,” she says, “Talk to me, babe.”

“I need to—” you breathe out, trying to get up again. “—get ready. I’ve got to – _Giselle_.”

Normani’s expression is pained with concern. “Lauren,” she says. “Did Brad hurt you?”

You shake your head. “No – no, he didn’t.”

There’s some relief on her face, but not much. She keeps stroking her fingers over your cheek, keeps running her hands through your hair, trying to calm you down. You want to fall into her and close your eyes. You want to tear every flashing memory away from your consciousness – the lines of her shoulder blades; the pull of his hands; the smoke in your lungs; her mouth between your legs – but you can’t.

You’ve got a show to dance.

“Mani,” you say. “ _Giselle_ – the matinée. They won’t wait.”

She looks at you. She knows. She knows what it means. She knows you’ll have to dance, no matter what, because that is the life you’re living, so she takes a deep inhale, and then says, “Ok – I’ll help you get ready. I’ll help you, Lo. I’m here. It’s all going to be ok.”

(It’s not. It’s not going to be ok. None of it is going to be ok.)

//

The entire performance is a blur; nothing short of a hazy, dream-like experience. The second you stumble into the wings after the finale, you collapse.

Sara, one of the company girls, kneels down next to you and hands you her cold bottle of water.

“Lauren,” she says, blue eyes wide with uncertainty. “Hey, Lauren, are you ok?”

You like Sara. She’s older than you by five years or so, and she’s one of the most talented ballerinas in the entire company. She has this leather jacket that looks really good on her. She’s funny and kind and she always takes the effort to talk to you even though you’re no one, just some second year Fonteyn student who somehow got lucky enough to be selected for the season.

She’s also got long, dark hair and really beautiful eyes and sometimes your gaze kind of gets stuck on her lips, before you manage to snap yourself out of it again.

“Lauren.”

She’s right in front of you, face close to yours, asking you if you’re ok, looking at you like she wants to make sure you’re ok – and it’s just too much. It’s too much to realize that you can’t ever stop yourself from thinking girls are fucking gorgeous.        

She wraps her arm around your waist and takes you to the dressing room and then says, “Give me your phone.”

You hand it to her – feeling sick to your stomach when you see the missed call notification and the name _Camila_ flash across your screen – and Sara calls your mother.

You don’t know how you make it back to school. One moment you’re still sitting on the table in the dressing room, pale and shivering, trying to clear your face of make-up, trying to clear _everything_ – and then you’re back in your bed, in your dorm room and you can faintly hear your mother’s voice as she talks to Normani, though you can’t make out the words. After that, there’s silence.

“Mani…” you breathe out.

Normani curls herself around you in your bed and you start crying.

//

You wake up because she calls you.

You’ve got no idea what time it is, no idea for how long you’ve been sleeping. But your phone is ringing through the darkness of your room and it’s her name flashing on your screen – over and over and over again – and you don’t think about it. You just pick up.

There’s a beat of silence because you’re not able to say anything and then Camila says, “Hi.”

You make some sort of sound that may pass off as _hey_ but you’re not sure. Either way, Camila’s voice sounds kind of faint, kind of nervous when she says, in a quick ramble, “Are you ok? You were gone when I woke up – so I didn’t… I don’t know, I just thought I’d call to ask if you were ok. Sorry if you’re, like, busy, or something.”

Needles in your throat.

You force yourself to speak. “Yeah, I’m – I’m fine. I had to dance _Giselle._ ”

Another beat of silence. Then, Camila’s voice from the other side of the line. “You left pretty early.”

There’s so much you want to say to her. You want tell her that she shouldn’t have done what she did to you last night. You want to tell her that you can’t stop thinking about. Can’t stop feeling it. Her fingers burning lines into your skin. Her mouth all over you. You want to tell her that it feels like she ripped you open with your teeth and sunk herself into your veins. Ripped you open so harshly that you can’t even breathe anymore. You want to tell her that it’s all her fault. That she’s making you feel things that you’ve never felt before. That it’s not fair, the way she kisses all of it into your mouth. That you’d rather have a boyfriend you don’t love – a boyfriend you don’t even really _like_ – instead.

You also want to tell her that you wanted to stay. That you _want_ to stay. That you’re sorry.

You don’t say any of it. You say, “I know.”

Camila is silent for so long that you think she’s hung up on you, but then, she says, “Did I do something wrong?”

All the hurt in your body cuts you open from the inside out.

You want to tell her _no._ You want to tell her _I’m so scared_. You want to tell her _no, you didn’t do anything wrong, if I could only have one moment over and over again for the rest of my life I would choose last night, I would choose last night with you._

You don’t say any of it. You say, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Oh,” Camila says.

The words taste sharp on your tongue as you push further, make it worse. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Camila is silent, again. There’s a strange edge to her voice when she finally breathes out, “Why?”

You want to tell her _because I’m not into girls._ You want to tell her _because I’m not gay_. You want to tell her _because I’m not a lesbian._

You don’t say any of it. You say, “I can’t. Camz, I—” You choke on the nickname. “—I just can’t.”

And then you hang up.

//

Brad has left you a voicemail. He’s left you a voicemail in which he tells you again how much he’s missed you and how great you were last night and how he’s been thinking about it all day. He says, _there’s a party on Friday_. He says, _you wanna go?_ He chuckles and says _you can bring that girl you’ve been sleeping with_.

He chuckles again – as if it’s a joke. 

//

You stare at Lucy’s name in your phone. You don’t do anything.

//

Normani comes back with your favorite Thai take-out for dinner, even though you still feel like throwing up. She also brings Keaton. You’re not able to look either of them in the eyes. Normani makes you a cup of your favorite lemon ginger tea and sits down on her own bed, trying to leave you be. But Keaton is Keaton. He drops down next to you the second after he’s walked through the door and says, “What happened?”

You don’t want to tell him. You can’t. Not yet. Not ever.

“I – there’s not – Keaton, I—”

He stares at you. Pushes your chin up with thumb when you refuse to look him in the eyes. “Hey, it’s ok.”

The air feels thin against the burning in your throat. “It’s really _not_ —”

At that Normani walks over and grabs your hand in hers. “Lo,” she says, “You can tell us anything.”

It makes the guilt spike in the very center of your cells, because they’re both being so nice to you, even though you— even though you’ve done—

“Lo,” Keaton says, “Did something happen with Camila?”

You break. You can’t stop yourself anymore. You shatter apart right in front of them and you don’t want to say it, but you hear yourself say it. You hear the words and you know they’re the truth and you know it’s what happened and you can’t ever turn it back.

//

This is what Keaton says.

“You deserve so much better than fucking Bradley Simpson.”

This is what Normani says.

“There is not a single person in the world who hasn’t at some point in their life done something they regret. Not a single person.” 

After everything, this is what they say – and it’s not right. They should have told you you’re a fucking bitch for letting Camila fall asleep against you naked, and then taking off in the middle of the night to have sex with your ex-boyfriend, but they don’t.

This is what Normani says.

“I’m here for you.”

This is what Keaton says.

“Lo, I just want you to be ok.”

Every syllable of sympathy stings more than the last.

//

These are not the things that Lucy says. These are not _at all_ the things that Lucy says. You manage to hold the conversation off for almost a week, because you don’t want to talk to Lucy about it – but then, Camila finds out.

//

It happens at Brad’s stupid party.

The week passes in a blur. You skip all of your classes. All of them.

When you tell your mother you are ill, she narrows her eyes, as if she doesn’t believe you, but since you’ve got _Giselle_ in the evenings, which always goes on, she lets you ‘rest’ during the day. You can’t be by yourself for too long, though, so you spend a lot of time sitting in busy cafés, pretending to be studying, all the while trying not to get caught up in your anxiety and your panic and your self-disgust. It’s always been easier to keep yourself from crying when you’re in public.

Not seeing Camila is not enough to stop yourself from thinking about Camila, though – that much becomes clear. Your mind seems out to torture you, thoughts tearing through your defenses like blades. Her skin, her scent, her mouth on you – keeping you awake at night. You feel sick to your stomach every time you catch yourself getting lost in it. Her moans against your ear; teeth scraping over your neck; your bodies, naked and burning, closer, closer, closer.

She doesn’t text you. She doesn’t call you.

But for some fucked up reason, she ends up at Brad’s party on Friday.

You’re so intoxicated on booze and weed that everything is blurred – all the lights, and all the people, and Brad’s eyes, following you around everywhere you go, for the entire evening already. You can’t remember why you wanted to come here. All you know is that you can’t stand to be around Normani or Keaton; can’t stand to be around your mother; can’t stand to be by yourself any more – and so you choose Brad and you choose alcohol and you choose the spliff between your fingers.

You’re busy trying to make your way through the crowded living room to grab yourself another drink, when someone steps right in your way, making you stumble. Annoyance rises in your veins as you ready yourself to snap, when—

Camila says, “Oh” in the same second that you blurt out, “ _Fuck_.”

She takes you in, letting her gaze flick over your messy hair, your see-through black top, the joint between your fingers.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Your mind is spinning. You take a step back, not wanting to be so close to her, not able to be so close to her without feeling the intensity of it spreading through your entire body. “What—” you start. “How – why are you here?”

Camila says something about being brought along by her friend whose cousin went to school with the guy who lives here or whatever – it passes right over your head. She’s here. She’s fucking _here_. Right in front of you.

Everything rushes through you at once. You can’t stop staring at her mouth, her neck, her collarbones, her legs. You want nothing else but to grab her wrist and take her to the nearest room with a lock on it. You want it _so much_ – but you can’t. You can’t. You told her you can’t. You told her you don’t want it anymore.

“Are you ok?” Camila says then. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

She’s so beautiful it almost hurts. You want to tell her. You want to tell her and you want to kiss her. Dance with her. Be with her. Get away from this fucking party together with her.

It’s the alcohol and it’s the weed – but it’s also _not._  

“Camz,” you say, stumbling over your words, over your messed up emotions. “You’re – you look – I’m so—”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly and the apology is about to fall from your lips when—

“ _Babe_!”

Brad’s arm falls heavy over your shoulders and you almost sober right up with the panic that comes along with him being next to you all of a sudden. James, Tristan and Connor are right behind him, joking and laughing. Brad’s breath is hot on your neck. He smells like beer and sweat. You push his arm off your shoulder, the weight of it making you stumble. He moves his hand to your back right away – low on your back – pulling you into him.

“There you are,” he slurs. “I was just telling the boys how hot you look tonight.”

His unsteady gaze shifts to Camila. “Hello.”

She glares at him, not saying anything. Brad, unfazed, shoves James’ shoulder and barks out a loud laugh. “Fuck – she’s totally your type, man.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and then says, with a teasing smile, “Is this your girl?”

Your stomach drops. Brad just laughs and Camila’s eyes narrow in your direction, the confusion bright and clear. _Fuck_. She must think that you’ve been— she must think you’ve been talking about—

Your mind is spinning and you feel nauseous. Brad’s fingers curl right over your hip, and down your thigh, possessively.

“Brad,” you try. Your voice sounds rough.

His fingers press into you even harder and he says something to his bandmates that you can’t make out, before turning to you. “What, babe?”

You try to step aside, but he only pulls you closer to him. “Lauren,” he says, “Don’t be like that. Let’s just have a good time.”     

There’s something in the pit of your stomach, something slow and burning, something slowly spinning your erratic heartbeat more and more out of control.

“Brad, stop,” you mumble.

He doesn’t. He laughs at something that Tristan says. You can feel it happening. You can feel that something is going to happen. You try to push Brad’s arm off of you.

“Lauren,” Brad says. 

“No,” you snap, pulling yourself out of his grip. “Stop.”

For a second, something shifts over Brad’s face, but then he glances over at his friends and says with a grin, “That’s not what you said when you came over last Saturday night.”

You choke on your own breath.

_Fuck._

“In fact,” Brad says, riled up by the laughter of his friends, “I’m pretty sure you wanted me to do quite the opposite—”

Your gaze catches right on Camila’s.

“— _Oh,_ _Brad, don’t stop_ – _yeah, like that_ – _fuck me like that_.”

His laughter is ringing in your ears but all you see is Camila; the way her expression shifts at Brad’s words, the way her eyes darken as she look at you, emotion shifting by the second – confusion, anger, something that vaguely looks like hurt – and then just anger. Burning, hot anger.

“Camz,” you say.

She pushes past you, before you can stop her. Everything is spinning and you feel nauseous. There are too many people in your way, the air too heavy with smoke. She’s already out of the door, but you can’t—

You stumble and you fall as you chase after her through the mess. Through the hallway. Out the door. Down the flights of stairs.

Right before she reaches the front door, you grab her arm.

“Camila!”

She spins around. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“I—”

“No, let me guess,” she bites out, before you can even say anything else. “You’re not into girls. You’re not into girls and that’s why you ran off to your ex-boyfriend the second after I made you come using only my mouth – because you’re _not_ into girls and you’re not into me and you’ll do anything to fucking prove it.”

“Camz—”

“Or, maybe,” she snaps, yelling right over you. “Maybe you got scared because it was too much and you’ve never had to deal with feelings before, and you couldn’t handle the thought of having to wake up next to me because then you would actually have to acknowledge that it happened.”

You’re choking on your own breath trying to interrupt, but then she says, “Or, or maybe—” Her voice cracks. “Maybe, Lauren, there is no excuse.” Her eyes flash. “Maybe you just actually are nothing more than an arrogant, spoiled, insensitive bitch who always thinks herself to be above everyone else’s feelings. Maybe that’s it.”

You try to grab her arm, but she slaps your hand away. “Have fun,” she says. “Have fun not being into girls. Have fun with Brad. Have fun without me.”

She slams the door closed.

//

Your intoxicated mind makes you call Lucy. She doesn’t pick up because it’s six o’clock in the morning in Spain and so you leave her a ten minute voicemail, stuttering and rambling through your sentences. She calls you back hours later when it’s six o’ clock in the morning in New York City. She leaves you a ten second voicemail and she speaks very clearly.

This is what Lucy says.

She says, “Fucking hell, Lo. This is not ok. What you’ve done is not ok. Camila deserves so much better than this mess.”

(And this is exactly why you didn’t want to tell Lucy, because Lucy isn’t afraid to tell the truth)

//

Camila doesn’t look at you, doesn’t talk to you.

She dances better than she’s ever danced before.

//

You block everything out and keep yourself high on weed for the rest of April.

::: 

**may**

:::

_Giselle_ ends but your grades keep dropping and your mother is concerned.

She takes you out to a fancy restaurant, which is her idea of a good time, and she cuts right to the chase. You haven’t even taken your first bite, when she says, “I don’t want you to see Bradley, anymore.”

You’re aware of the fact that your face remains pretty expressionless.

“I don’t want you dating him,” she continues. “He’s distracting you from what’s really important.”

“We’re not dating,” you say – which is true.

Neither you nor Brad has taken the effort to establish anything solid between you. You go to parties together. You smoke weed together. Sometimes you have sex, usually when you’re either high or drunk, so you won’t have to think about the difference, won’t have to feel the difference in the way Brad touches you and the way—

In general, your whole body feels pretty insensitive to the whole thing.

“I don’t care what you’re calling it,” your mother says, “I don’t want you to see him anymore. He’s distracting you from ballet.”

You wonder what she would say if you would tell her that Brad’s actually the very last thing that’s distracting you from ballet.

“Fine.”

At that, your mother’s eyebrows rise. “What?”

“I said fine,” you mumble. “I’ll stop seeing him.”

Something shifts across her face. Her eyebrows draw together in a frown and her eyes narrow ever so slightly and she purses her lips, as if she can’t decide how to respond to your lack of protest. And then she says, “Mija, are you ok?”

The question catches you completely off guard. You look at your mother’s face and something sharps tugs in the center of your chest as you slowly shake your head.

“Mija…” she says again, voice suddenly filled with worry. “What is the matter?”

You swallow hard. The softness tears through you, making you angry about the wrong things.

“I wish we never moved to New York,” you snap, before you can stop yourself. “I wish you never started working here – I—” Your voice cracks a little. “I fucking hate Fonteyn.”

Your mother gasps. “ _Lauren_.”

“You decided it,” you bite out at her. “You decided everything. You didn’t even ask.” 

She stares at you. “Lauren, why are you—”

“Maybe I wanted to stay in Barcelona,” you cut out. “Maybe I loved Barcelona more than anything in the whole world and maybe I hate New York more than anything in the whole world. The streets and the people and the _goddamn_ academy. Maybe I hate every single thing about it, and maybe you would know that if you actually ever cared enough to ask me about it.”

Your mother looks so shocked and hurt that you almost feel bad. You know that you’re overreacting. You know that you’re mixing your emotions – that you’re confusing New York with other things – but you don’t care.

“Mija,” she says then. “I’m sorry. Do you want to—”

“No,” you snap. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything because you never listen, anyway. I just dance for you and do my homework for you and I’ll stop seeing Brad for you and everything is always exactly how you want it to be, isn’t it? Who cares about what I want.”

“Lauren, you know that’s not true,” she says. “You know that I care a lot about what you want.”

“Yeah,” you say. “As long as it’s exactly in line with you.”

At that, your mother falls silent. You stare at each other for a couple of tense moments, and then you roll your eyes and grab your cutlery. Neither of you says anything anymore.

//

The next Friday, your mother does something crazy, though. She takes the day off. In fact, she takes the whole weekend off. She takes the whole weekend off and then the whole week after that as well, and she takes you and Taylor and Chris to Barcelona.

“I know you all miss it,” she says, and for a second you swear she’s looking only at you. “I thought it would be fun to go on a small holiday.”

Chris and Taylor are over the moon that they get to miss a full week of school, which makes you feel kind of happy – happy enough at least to dismiss the thought that your mother once again uses her money to make something up to you. When you’re sitting in the airplane, though, she briefly grabs your hand and you realize it’s not just money. It’s money, sure, but also compassion. It’s your mother, doing what she can. It’s your mother, listening. Listening, even though you were out of line and overreacting.

You feel your heart soften and you let yourself lean into her a little more while you continue watching _Stranger Things_ together.

//

Before you’ve even knocked on Lucy’s door, you’re already crying. The second she opens it, everything gets worse. You’re choking on your own breath, unable to stop your shoulders from shaking, unable to keep your voice from trembling, unable to stop the sobs and the tears—

—and then, Lucy steps forward and wraps her arms around you.

“Come here,” she says, “Come here, baby.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She brushes your tears out of your eyes. “I know,” she says, “You should be.”

But she presses her lips against your cheek and pulls you in closer and then she says, “Let’s go inside. I missed you so much.”  

//

You curl yourself around Lucy’s body, shifting closer to her on the bed, wanting only to be close to something, to anyone, to her. You shut your eyes and let yourself fall into her. She’s got one arm hooked around you, hands tracing circles over your shoulder blades. With the fingers of her other hand she strokes softly through your hair.

“Shh,” she whispers against your forehead.

You feel faint and dizzy. Exhausted. You clench your fists into the fabric of Lucy’s sweatshirt, turning your hip even more into her body. Your heart is racing against your ribcage. Lucy turns her head ever so slightly and it’s almost a reflex to turn your chin up.

“Lo,” she says. “I think—”

You kiss her.

Her lips are soft and warm and you push harder, push and shift your body until you’re on top of her, trying to deepen the kiss, pressing yourself against her, trying to feel it—

For the briefest moment, Lucy’s hands are on your hips as she kisses you back, and then she slowly pushes you off of her, making you break away. 

“Lo,” she says. Her voice is soft.

You collapse.

“Sorry,” you breathe out, new tears burning in your eyes. “I – I thought – I just wanted to _feel_ something – other than… other than…”

“I know,” she says, “It doesn’t work like that, though.”

You swallow hard and then you say, “Can we just stay here the whole day? Just us. Talk about everything later.”

She brushes her fingers over your cheek and then she nods. “Of course. We can do whatever you want, ok?”

//

You fall asleep. It’s the jet lag. But it’s also everything else.

When you wake up again, Lucy is sitting next to you on the bed leaning back against the headboard, smiling at her phone. She hasn’t realized you’re awake yet, just keeps grinning at her screen.

“Who are you messaging?” you mumble, your voice still sleepy.

Lucy drops her phone as though it’s burned her. “Hey, you’re awake.” She shifts down a little, leaning back in the pillows to look at you. “You feeling a bit better?”

You nod, because you kind of are. You still feel weird, like your skin is too tight, like you don’t deserve anything, not even to be here. But you also feel a little bit better, with your face in Lucy’s pillow and her being right next to you, anyway.

“Yeah,” you say. “What were you smiling about?”

For some reason, Lucy blushes a little. “Oh, it’s nothing.” You don’t say anything, just keep your eyes on hers until she says, “Keaton just sent me a funny article.”

It takes you a second. “Keaton – as in _Keaton Stromberg_. My Keaton?”

Lucy’s eyebrow kinks up. “ _Your_ Keaton?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” she says then, trying to sound light, turning her gaze away from yours. “Yeah – uh – we’re Facebook friends.”

“What? Since _when_?” you say. “I’m not even friends with Keaton on Facebook.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, you see him every day, so.”

As if that explains everything.

“Luce,” you say after a moment, studying her face. “You know he’s with Normani, right?”

“What?” She laughs out. “Oh my God, Lo. That is not at all—” She laughs again and your eyebrows shoot up. “Of course I know he’s with Normani. I’m so not even into him.”

_What the actual fuck._

“Lucia…” you mumble, slowly grinning.

“Oh, God,” she says, rolling her eyes at you. “Look – before you get any ideas. It’s not like that. I mean, come on, he sends me Buzzfeed articles and videos of puppies going swimming for the first time.”

“Hm,” you say. “How often do you talk to each other?”

“Very, very infrequently.” She throws her phone on the night stand as if that solves the issue, before jumping out of the bed. “Are you hungry?”

You’re about to call her out on her weird behavior, when you feel your stomach clench at the thought of food, so you decide to drop the issue for now. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry.”

“Cool,” she says, “I can make you burritos, if you want. I found a really nice recipe the other day.”

You bite your lip. It’s pushing the limit, but you don’t care. You can feel the corner of your mouth curl upwards as you say, “You mean Keaton tagged you in a _Tasty_ video on Facebook…”

“Oh, shut up,” Lucy snaps at you, but you don’t miss the way her cheekbones turn another shade darker as she quickly makes her way out of the room.

//

It’s not until you’re lying in the darkness of Lucy’s bedroom many hours later, that she finally confronts you about it.

“Lauren,” she says, “Tell me about what happened.”

You swallow hard and you bite down on your lip, staring up at Lucy’s ceiling. The instant heavy feeling in your stomach is so overwhelming that it takes you a second to breathe through it. You don’t know where to begin; you don’t even know where to begin explaining everything that happened. The panic, the party, Brad – you’ve got no idea how you got so caught up in everything. How everything has been spiraling out of your control for so long already and you’re unable to stop spinning along.   

You stare up at the ceiling and you breathe out, “Luce, I – I feel her _everywhere_.”

It hurts to say it.

Lucy shifts and looks at you, but you keep your gaze upwards. With your eyes on the faint marks where Lucy’s glow in the dark stickers used to be, you say, “I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop feeling her. Everywhere. All over me. No matter how many times I have sex with Brad.”

Lucy is silent for a moment. You can hear her take a sharp inhale, and then she says, “Lo, why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

The words get caught in your throat. “I – I don’t want to – I—” Lucy’s eyes on you are making you burn under the blanket. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Lauren,” Lucy says, slight edge of desperation to her voice. “Why wouldn’t I understand?”

“You’re – you’re just – for you, it’s not – you don’t know about—”

“About what?” Lucy shifts closer to you. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing, I—”

“Lo, for fuck’s sake.” She grabs your hand under the covers and digs her fingers so hard into you that it almost hurts. “I’m your best friend.”

Your eyes shut closed and all of it rushes through you, instantly; all the things you _are_ not telling her; all the things you have been keeping from her for so long. Every single thought about what happened between you and Lucy that you’ve been pushing down for _years_ sinks itself right back into your consciousness—

The first time Lucy talked to you. Biology class. Blushing so hard. Still blushing when you met Vero for lunch. The constant tension in your stomach. Not being able to focus on anything or anyone else for weeks, months. Your fourteenth birthday party. Vero’s eyes on you. _I dare you to kiss Lucy._ Her lips soft. Vague taste of raspberry lemonade. Breathless when you pulled away. Her eyes. More kisses. All sorts of kisses. Her hands on your stomach. Her fingers under the hem of your bikini bottoms. Only one person you ever told about what happened and she, she— the whispers in the hallway— the truth— _lesbian lesbian lesbian_ —

“It’s happening all over again,” you choke out. “I can feel it happening all over again and just because Vero isn’t—”

“Vero?”

You turn your head to look at Lucy and for a moment you can see the glint of recognition, the second in which her mind shifts back to everything before New York, and you feel the rush of it all the way down your spine.

She looks at you and you think about how you couldn’t stop feeling her touch on you for months after it happened—

“What does this have to do with Vero?”

Your force your eyes shut. “Nothing – it’s nothing.”

“Lo.”

You bite your lip so hard that it hurts, because Lucy is right, she’s your best friend and you want to tell her everything. You want to tell her about the shame and the panic and what she means to you, what she has meant to you and how Vero was right, she was _right_ and—

“Luce,” you breathe out, your voice so small and scared in the darkness of her bedroom. “I don’t want to be with a girl.”

The shameful venom flooding in your veins is still stronger than your truth.

For a second, something shifts across Lucy’s face. Some sort of sadness. She squeezes your hands tighter and she doesn’t say anything, just looks at you. She holds your gaze while everything passes right through the both of you, and you think that maybe she knows. You think that maybe she knows that when you were fourteen and fifteen years old, you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling all the things for her that you didn’t want to feel. Maybe she knows. Even though Vero tried to break it.  

Lucy tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and then she says, “Lo, I want you to know something.” She grabs your hand and brings it up to her lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, before she says, “I know there are things that have happened. Things you don’t want to talk to me about. Or can’t talk to me about, for whatever reason.”

Your throat closes off with the burning behind your eyes.

“I know you’re struggling,” Lucy says. “I can _see_ you’re struggling – and it hurts me so much, because all I want is for you to be happy. I want you to be happy and confident about everything that you do and everything that you are. You are the most amazing person I have ever met and that will never change. No matter what happens.”

Her eyes lock right into yours. “But here’s the thing, Lo. Here’s the shitty truth. I don’t want to say it and you don’t want to hear, but there’s no other way.” Her exhale is long and slow, and then she says, “You can’t keep fucking things up for other people, just because _you_ are the one struggling.”

Her words burn in the center of your chest. “I know,” you breathe out. “I know. Luce, that’s why – that’s _why_ I did it.”

She kisses your knuckles again and you say it, before you can stop yourself, “It was too much. I’m feeling too much and I didn’t – I don’t want—” Every syllable burns. “I can’t handle it. All of her. _Everywhere_. I wanted it to stop, and so I slept with Brad. I sleep with Brad to make it stop.”

Lucy bites her lip. “Is it working?”

You shake your head, and Lucy looks at you, doesn’t have to say it for you to know what she is thinking. Of course it’s not working. She could have told you that before you fucked everything up in the first place.

She doesn’t scold you for it, though. Instead, she says, “You know, I really like Camila.”

You stare at her.

“I really like her a lot, and I think you do too, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.” Lucy smiles softly and you are blushing so hard that you swear she can see it, even in the darkness. But then says, “Right now, you don’t really deserve her liking _you_ , though. I’m sorry to say it.”

You bite your lip, but Lucy’s words aren’t harsh. They’re the truth.

“I know,” you say again.

“It’s just something to think about, I guess.” Lucy shifts a little closer to you again, stroking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “When you get back to New York.”

“Luce,” you mumble into her hand. “Thanks – for… for putting up with me. Even though I’m being so impossible about everything. Even if I can’t – if I can’t – like, ever really talk about it.”

She looks at you, and there it is again; that second in which you’re so completely sure she knows all of what you’ve ever kept from her, all of what you’ve ever kept from each other.

“We’ll get there,” she says.

Vero hasn’t broken it.

//

Barcelona is all you need it to be.

You’re overcome by such a sense of sudden freedom – no classes, no shows, no Brad, no Camila – that you can feel your chest light up more with every passing day. It’s been way too long since you got to spend a full week with Chris and Taylor, or your mother, for that matter, and all of you constantly seem to realize how nice it is. You haven’t argued with Chris even once. Taylor bought you matching bracelets at the market. Your mother sits next to you at the Barcelona Ballet, and she doesn’t comment on the girls’ turn-outs or the lack of length in their lines even once. She just watches and she lets you watch, and both of you love it most like this.  

“You know,” she says, smiling at you over her tapas, the next day. “I’ve been thinking about the Fonteyn Summer School.” You’ve got your mouth full with _bruschetta_ , so before you can even respond, your mother adds, “What do you think about organizing it over here?”

You chew and swallow and then still barely manage to get anything out other than, “What – here – in Barcelona?”

There’s a glint in your mother’s eyes as she nods. “Yes.” Her smile grows wider. “Wouldn’t that be nice, mija? Of course, I’d have to discuss it with the board first, and I’d have to get the Spanish companies to cooperate on classes and excursions.” Her expression changes, as if the thought alone is giving her stress, but then she smiles again. “I think a little bit of international experience wouldn’t hurt, though, don’t you agree? It would be so good for all of you to see what the rest of the world has to offer in terms of classical training.”

You can’t believe it. “Mama – are you serious?”

She smiles as though she’s actually surprised as well. “Yes, I think I really am. Being here this week has been such a positive experience. I surely wouldn’t mind a Catalán summer. I think you wouldn’t either.”

There’s only a second in which your mother’s smile curls even wider at the look on your face, and then you wrap your arms around her and pull her close, almost knocking your glass of water right over on Taylor. Your mother laughs and presses a kiss to your cheek and you don’t even care that it’s sticky with _patatas bravas_ spices.

//

Keaton texts you the night before you leave to go back to New York.

You’re brushing your teeth in Lucy’s bathroom, while Lucy is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, painting a new layer of red nail polish on her toe nails. As soon as you read the message you gasp on your toothpaste.

Lucy rolls her eyes at you, but then almost knocks her nail polish over when you finally gather your breath long enough say, “Keaton wants your number.”

All of a sudden, she becomes extremely interested in the tiles of the bathroom floor. You spit the rest of your toothpaste in the sink before gasping out, “What the hell is happening here, Lucia?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

You almost shove your phone in her face. “ _Hey Junior, so nice of you to play hooky in Barca while I’m stuck in partner class without a partner. Hope you and Sergeant Jauregui are bonding over a good carafe of sangria. Oh, btw, can I get Lucy’s number?_ ”

She pushes the phone right back and doesn’t look at you, just keeps painting her nails, as if she isn’t at all surprised. The slightly nervous tremble of her lips indicates differently, though.

“This is an interesting turn of events,” you say, when Lucy takes too long to respond.

“Yeah, interesting that Keaton uses the word ‘carafe’…” she mumbles.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s the part of the text you’re focused on? Not the ‘let-me-just-try-and-get-in-Lauren’s-best-friend’s-panties bit?”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, you’re ridiculous. He’s with Normani.”

“ _I’m_ ridiculous?” You stare at the text message. “He’s the one asking for your number.”  

Lucy’s cheeks are becoming redder by the second. “Yeah, well, the Facebook messenger app sucks. We all know that.”

You can feel the grin curling around your lips. “Lucia, Lucia, Lucia…”

“Lo.” She stares up at you. “Can you not?”

You can’t stop smiling, though. “So?”

“So what?”

“Should I give him your number?”

Lucy bites her lip and then says. “No.”

“No?” You’re not able to hide the surprise in your voice.

“No,” she says, proud smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’s with Normani – and I… I already shot him down when he asked me the other day, so – so you can tell him that the Facebook messenger app will do.”

You look at her for a couple more seconds, trying to see through it, but she looks so serious that you can’t help but mutter, “Ok…”

You text Keaton _Lucy says the Facebook messenger app will do_ , only to receive Keaton’s response about ten seconds later. You stare at the words.

“Keaton says, _tell Lucy her number will do better_.”

Lucy bites her bottom lip back with her teeth to hide her smile. “Well, you can tell Keaton—”

“Oh, no,” you say, interrupting her. “I’m not going to be the messenger. You’ve got Facebook for your little back-and-forths.” You lock your eyes in hers. “Alternatively… you could just give him your number, of course.”

She stares at you and you give her a challenging smile. At that, Lucy immediately scoffs and says, “No. Not happening.”

You grin. “Ok. Fine. Have fun on Facebook.”

“Fine. I will.”

Later, when Lucy’s already drifted off to sleep, you text Keaton, _I’m going to ignore the fact that you’re already dating my roommate, but just so you know, Lucy tends to play hard to get. Clear your night tomorrow. We are talking about this when I get back._

//

“Normani and I have decided to just be friends.”

“ _What_?”

Keaton stares at you. “You heard me, Lo.”

“Wait, but—” you stammer. “Why?”

He shrugs and smiles. “We just like each other better as friends, I guess.” He laughs at the look on your face. “It’s not the end of the world, Junior.”

“But… but Normani is great!” you say, still unable to really believe it.

“Yes, she is,” Keaton smiles. He even blushes a little. “I never said she wasn’t.”

You take a sip of your water, taking in his words, before looking up to study his face. “Are you ok?”

He grins at you. “Yes, Lo. I’m ok. We talked about it a lot and it’s just better, for both of us. Thanks, though.”

You nod, before frowning at him. “Is Normani ok, too? Otherwise, I’m going to have to beat you up.”

Keaton laughs. “She’s fine. I promise. No hard feelings. Great to know whose side you’re on, though.”

You grin at him, bringing your glass up to your lips again. Keaton smiles at you and then runs a hand through his hair, messing it up on purpose. You can’t help but smile at it as you mumble, “So… you are moving on pretty quickly, though…”

Keaton bites his lip and looks down at the table, trying to hide his grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good luck.”

At that, he looks up, throwing your words back at you. “Good luck?”

You can’t help your smile. “She doesn’t go out with just anyone. Just so you know.”

Keaton’s grin is so white that it’s almost blinding when he says, again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You laugh. “Oh, God, I can’t wait until the summer.”

When you tell Keaton about your mother’s idea for the Barcelona summer school, he just laughs and says, “I better start working on my audition tomorrow morning, then.”

Later, you text Lucy _Keaton and Normani broke up. Thought you wanted to know._

She texts you back _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ and all you’re able to think is _damn_ , this is going to be interesting.

//

You haven’t looked Camila directly in the eyes for over a month and a half. She’s been at the top of your classes for weeks; her muscles on fire, her spine stronger than ever. Her lines are bursting into the universe like nothing is ever going to pull her back again.

She doesn’t need you.

It roughly tears at something in the center of your chest – the fact that all this time you thought she needed dark studios and your hands on her body as much as you did, if not for anything else, at least for dancing – but she doesn’t.

She really doesn’t.

Every single piece she dances is charged with raw emotion – with the purest of vulnerability – and you can see it happening all around you; the lingered glances of the other girls, the way your mother’s pen stills when she’s taking notes; Austin’s parted lips that have got you wanting to punch all of his teeth out of his mouth.

This is what dancing is. Once again, she masters every single detail of it.  

You try not to see. You haven’t looked Camila directly in the eyes for over a month and a half.

But then she steps out of the dressing room in _Grishko_ , while you’re in front of the large mirror, trying on a rather revealing lacy one-piece that Judy Weiss has been attempting to get you to buy for months – and there’s no way around it.

//

You can see the shift across her face; the way her eyes widen ever so slightly, the way her lips part and the soft blush reaching its way up her neck, and then the recognition taking over.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice suddenly sounds rough.

Camila doesn’t reply. Her eyes go over the fabric over your leotard and you can feel yourself panicking. “Oh – yeah – this, uh – Judy wants me to buy this. I’m not – I don’t think…”

“It looks good,” she says.

There’s no oxygen in your lungs, so you’ve got absolutely no idea how you manage to answer, but you can hear yourself breathe out, “You think?”

Her eyes lock into yours.

“Yeah, Lauren,” she says. “It looks good.”

You try to ignore the shivers on your skin at the sound of her voice, directed at you again. You run your hand through your hair, Camila following the gesture with her gaze. The silence stretches and you think about Lucy. You think about not deserving Camila liking you. It aches in your ribs.

“What are you buying?” you say, still sounding hoarse.

Camila holds up a pair of gray sweatpants. “Just some sweats.”

You nod and bite your lip. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say at all, but you feel like you have to say something, now that you have the chance—

“I loved your solo on Wednesday,” you blurt out. She looks at you, doesn’t say anything, so you continue, your nerves taking over. “It really – I could really feel it. The way your body was so in line with the music. No one else can do that, you know. You are – you’re really…”

“Lauren,” she says, cutting you off. She gives you half a smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

The brown of her eyes works its way right under your skin, making your pulse quicken as she says, “Force it.”

It knocks the breath right out of you. Camila shifts, pushes her hands deeper in her pockets while her gaze falls down to the floor, suddenly a little shy. It kicks your consciousness right into place.       

“No,” you mumble. “I’m serious.”

At that, she looks up again.

“I’m not just saying it. Camz—” The nickname tumbles off your lips before you can stop yourself. You both shift a little uncomfortably, so you quickly ramble on. “The way you timed your _fouéttes en tournant_ to the base line of the music – and… and those _grand jetés_ – you were… flying.” The word doesn’t even cover it. “Those – those movements with your shoulder blades – it’s like—” It makes you shy to say it, but you push through it, because it’s the truth, it’s the truth of watching Camila dance. “It almost looked like you had wings.”

Her eyes are locked on yours. She stares and stares and then she says, “You’ve been watching?”

“What?” You’re unable to hide the shock at her words. “Yeah – of course I’ve been watching.”

She nods slowly. “Ok, yeah. I guess I haven’t really… Well, I guess I haven’t really been paying attention to anyone else these weeks. Haven’t really been paying attention to you.”

And just like that, it works its way right into the air between you; the tension, the hurt, the reality of the way things are between you now. Your breathing tenses and everything between you feels taut all of a sudden. You bite your lip hard. Once again, Lucy’s words rush through your mind.

You stare at your bare feet – bandaged and bruised, as always – and then you mumble, “I’m sorry about… about what happened. About what I did.”

Camila’s throat bobs, as if she swallows your words down. There’s a moment of silence. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. And then she says, “Ok.”

She gives you a faint smile, before adding, “I’m going to go now.”

You nod. “Yeah – ok. Bye.”

“See you in class.” She’s already walked past you, when she turns around again, her eyes flicking over your body for a moment as she adds, “You should buy it. I was serious too. It looks good on you.”

She leaves and you’re still sort of staring at the floor, still sort of dazed and tense and uncomfortable – but you do end up buying the lacy, revealing thing Judy Weiss called a leotard. 

:::

**june**

:::

Summer hits like a blazing fire, and with it, everything in the center of your body starts to simmer.

//

When you have class on Monday, your gaze accidentally catches on hers when you make the _réverence_ after your solo.

It lasts for all of three seconds, before you flick your eyes down, but it’s enough to realize that Camila didn’t immediately break the contact.

//

A couple of days later, she steps up to you, taking the position next to you at the barre. “Good morning.”

You’re so startled by it that you don’t even answer.  

“Mind if I take this spot?”

You cough. “No – no – go ahead.”

Camila gives you half a smile and then starts stretching, not saying anything else. You don’t talk to each other during the entire class, but still, there’s something about having her next to you again that pushes your mind into the sharpest focus you’ve experienced in weeks.

//

“God,” Camila breathes out during your afternoon class the next week. “This studio is a freaking sauna…”

Beads of sweat are dripping down from your forehead to your eyelashes. “Tell me about it.”

She grins and glances at something over your shoulder. “Look at your mom, though.”

You shift around, just in time to watch your mother almost dozing off in her chair next to the piano, right before snapping out of it again and fanning herself with her notepad, her face red as a tomato. Your laugh comes easy, and it’s almost like the sound of it alone snaps Camila’s smile into place, that’s how hard she grins back at you.

//

“Summer school auditions are coming up,” you tell Camila.

She nods. “Yeah – your birthday too.”

For a second her eyes lock right into yours and you can’t ignore the flip in the center of your stomach, because there’s no denying that you both know exactly what happened last year in relation to both of those things.

//

For stretching your _arabesques_ , your mother asks you to pair up. You immediately search out Normani, who’s on the other side of the studio, but before you can make your way over, Normani is called forward to discuss the notes on her solo.

It takes you a second to realize that Camila is already waiting for you at the barre. Your heart shoots up in your throat, suddenly beating erratically.

She gives you a smile before grinning, as she says, “Haven’t done this in a while… You wanna switch the lights off?”

_Fucking hell._

You choke on your own breath, blushing so hard that Camila laughs and half the class looks up, before she adds, with a smile, “I’m joking, Laur. Come on. I’ll go first.”

The second your palm brushes over her thigh to lengthen the stretch of her movement, you swear you can hear Camila’s breath hitch, though.

//

“I don’t think I can handle another second of this heat…”

Camila smiles a tired smile at you. “God – I know.”

You swallow hard. “I want to go swimming.”

Camila nods. “If only we would ever get a second of free time around here…”

You’re about to respond but your mother calls for your attention, so neither of you says anything about it during the rest of the class. For a second, you think you can see slight glint in Camila’s eyes, though, but it’s probably just the heat.

Then again, you should have known she’d think of something.

//

It happens on a Wednesday evening, two weeks since the moment in front of the _Grishko_ dressing rooms. Your entire class has been taken out to the David H. Koch Theater at Lincoln Center to watch an abstract Ulysses Dove piece, which was mind-blowingly good, and for some reason you and Camila end up lagging behind the rest of the group while you make your way back through New York.

The energy of the piece is still buzzing in your veins.

“God, that was so…” Camila says, not finishing her sentence.

“I know,” you mumble.     

Her gaze crosses yours for a second and you know that you don’t need to talk about it to be aware of the fact that both of you watch ballet in the same way; as so much more than movement and precision and energy.

The night is hot and sticky, even though the sun’s already set. Every piece of clothing on your body feels like too much, even more so with Camila’s eyes on you like that. You’re so captured by the performance and the summer heat and walking next to her again, that you barely notice how the distance between the two of you and the rest of the group is getting larger.

But then Camila abruptly grabs your wrist, pulls you to a halt and says, “You want to go do something fun?”

There is only one answer, of course. There is only ever one answer.

The corner of Camila’s mouth curls upwards and she turns around, starts pulling you backwards, away from the group, through the busy streets.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she says. “You remember the rule, right?”

She flicks her gaze up at you.

“Try to look like you belong?” you mumble a little uncertain, thinking back to when Camila took you and Lucy to see the première of _Coppélia_.

She bites her smile back. “Exactly. Come on – over here.”

She quickly makes her way across the busy avenue, until you’re in front of a fancy hotel that has _The Queens_ in bold golden letters on the façade.

“Ok,” she says. “Just – go along with whatever I do, ok?”

Your heart is beating so fast against your ribcage that you don’t really have enough composure to respond. Camila doesn’t wait on it either. As if she has every single right to be there, she makes her way through the revolving door, until the both of you are standing in the middle of the fancy entrance hall. You’re immediately overwhelmed by the sheer grandness of it all; the gold and the velvet and the chandeliers. Men in expensive suits are sitting at the bar; women surrounded by their shopping bags are sipping on their cocktails. In general, it’s relatively quiet, though.

“All right,” Camila says under her breath. “Follow me. Don’t look at the guards.”

She doesn’t let go of your wrist when she pulls you through the hotel entrance area in the direction of the elevators. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – on your jean shorts and your t-shirts, neither of you really dressed for a place like this.

You’re already almost at the elevator when one of the doormen steps in your way. He looks a little uncomfortable, like his uniform is a little too big for his small shoulders. He can’t be much older than the two of you, early twenties, probably.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he says.

Your stomach drops, but Camila looks completely unfazed, her expression shifting into a strange combination of arrogance and boredom when she drawls out, “What is it?”

The guy’s eyes widen slightly for a second, but then he gives both of you a stern look. “May I ask what you girls are doing here?”

“Excuse me?” Camila says. You bite your lip hard. “We’d like to get to our rooms, please.”

His eyebrows rise. “You are staying here at _The Queens_?”

Camila’s frown deepens. “Why else would we be here? My father has been staying here for the past two weeks, already.” The man gives her a blank look and Camila adds, without any hesitation. “Alejandro Cabello.” He blinks heavily. “ _Cabello Marketing Group_.” No response. “Only the biggest conglomerate in the field of—”

“All right.” He coughs, running a hand through his hair. “Can I please see your hotel key cards for a moment?”

Camila stares at him like it’s the most unreasonable thing she’s ever heard, before rolling her eyes and muttering out _fine_. She turns right to you. “Lauren, show him the cards. I’m getting tired of this nonsense.”

You can feel your throat go dry. “I don’t—” You stammer, pushing your hands in the pockets of your shorts. “I don’t think I—”

“You’ve left them in our hotel room _again_?”

Camila gives you such an angry glare that you can’t help but blurt out, “Sorry, I thought—”

“Damn it, Lauren,” she snaps at you. “How incompetent can you be? This is the third time this week alone.”

The guard gives both of you an uncertain look.  

Hand on her hip, Camila turns back to him. “Do you have any spare cards for room 714?”

“Uh,” he says, “I’d have to look—”

Camila holds up her hand to silence him, before he can even finish his sentence. “Never mind, I’ll call daddy. This is taking forever.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket and gets her phone out, flashing you another angry glare. “God, Lauren – I can’t believe I have to deal with this right now – being held up in front of the elevator for an _hour_ without any valid reason – and today of all days—” There’s a sudden crack in her voice. “Just when Austin broke up with me—”

She chokes and you can feel your heart speed up with the way she plays it perfectly. The guard’s eyes go wide, as you swear you can hear him mumble something under his breath that sounds a lot like _dear god_.

“That fucking asshole,” Camila sobs – _actual tears_ burning in her eyes – while she shuffles through the contact list in her phone. “All I want is to curl up in bed and put my credit card to use; new shoes, room service—” Her voice cracks again. “Cheating on me… with Normani Kordei, of all people—” You choke on your own breath. “Daddy is _so_ not going to be happy about this, I’ll tell you that.”

Right as she puts the phone up to her ear, still crying heavily, the security guard holds up his hand and says, “Never mind, ladies. I think – I’m sorry. You’re good to go. My apologies for holding you up.”

“Thank you!” Camila exclaims, right before grabbing your wrist and walking into the elevator, pushing the _close_ button before anyone can come after you. The second the door closes, she wipes the tears from her eyes and cracks up, and all the arrogance leaves her face at once.

Your heart is racing.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, while Camila pushes the button to the top floor. “What the fuck just happened.”

She grins at you. “If ballet doesn’t work out, I could always go into acting, don’t you think?”

“ _Cabello Marketing Group_?”

Her smile widens and then she says, in the exact same annoyed tone as before, “Lauren, where are our hotel key cards? How incompetent can you be?”

You burst out laughing, not able to stop yourself. Your entire chest is burning. “What are – why – what are we even doing here?”

She flashes you a smile. “They’ve got a really great rooftop pool.”

The elevator is shooting upwards with great speed. You stare at Camila with wide eyes, still unable to believe what just happened. “So,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “Just how often exactly do you break your way into places you’re not supposed to be?”

She grins and opens her mouth to answer, but before you can do anything, the elevator doors slide open again and you’re suddenly on a rooftop terrace with an enormous swimming pool that’s completely empty.

Camila squeals in happiness. “Yes, we’re the only ones! I was hoping we’d be. Old, rich people always stay inside when it’s hot.”

She kicks off her _Vans_ and pulls her shirt right over her head. It feels like all the oxygen gets knocked right out of your lungs in less than a heartbeat. You shift your gaze down the second Camila hooks her fingers around the button of her shorts.

Fuck – you aren’t really—

“Are you coming or not?”

You look up again, just to see Camila kicking her shorts off her ankles, flashing you a blinding white smile, before taking off at a run and jumping right into the pool, screaming when she comes up for air.

Your pulse is racing under your skin. This is totally illegal. You’re sure it’s absolutely, totally illegal for you to be doing this.

“Lauren,” Camila yells out. “Come on.”

She swims over and leans her elbows on the edge of the swimming pool, staring you right in your eyes as she says, “Aren’t you hot?”

The words curl right around your spine. You take a heavy inhale.

You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be back at school, with the rest of your classmates for the evaluation of the performance – not at the edge of a swimming pool on the rooftop of some fancy hotel called _The Queens_ with Camila Cabello, who’s wearing nothing but a red bra and black panties.

You pull your shirt right over your head at the same time you kick your shoes off. Camila dives back into the water again. You’re not supposed to do things like this. You’re attending one of the toughest classical dancing academies in the entire world. All your days should be is focus and discipline and ballet. You slide your shorts down your legs, and curl your toes over the edge of the pool.

You are one of the most promising young dancers in this entire city – but you’re also seventeen years old. You’re seventeen years old and there’s a swimming pool in front of you, and a girl whose red bra strap is falling off her left shoulder, and your toes are already touching the water, and it’s the easiest thing to jump— 

—and so you jump.

//

You can see the drops of water in Camila’s eyelashes, falling onto her cheekbones every single time she blinks or laughs or shakes her head. You can’t stop staring at her – the way her skin is slightly flushed with excitement, the endorphins, the way her muscles flex when she climbs onto the edge of the pool, only to dive right back in again, the way she keeps _looking at you_ like she’s hasn’t really seen you in weeks, which is sort of true.

You haven’t seen each other like this in weeks. 

She’s like a magnet – pulling you in outside of your control, maybe even outside of her own control.

“Hey, Laur,” she says at some point, leaning back against the wall of the swimming pool, out of breath and beautiful and _looking_ at you. The New York City lights are burning bright behind her as the night slowly gets darker.

“Yeah?”

You sound breathless too. It’s not because of the swimming.

“Have you seen _Dancer_?”

You bite your lip, tasting the chloride as you think about it. “The Sergei Polunin documentary?”

She nods, right before diving into the water and swimming closer to you. When she comes up for air, you say, “No, I haven’t seen it yet.”

She smiles. “He’s my favorite dancer.”

“Really?” you say, simultaneously very much surprised by it, and also not at all. “Don’t tell my mother. She’ll kick you out of Fonteyn the very same day.”

“ _What_?” Camila’s eyes go wide. “She doesn’t think he’s good?”

“No, she does,” you say. “But he’s _ballet’s bad boy_ – that’s what they call him, right? She doesn’t like his attitude.”

Camila laughs. “I get that.” She studies your face. “What do you think about him?”

You can feel yourself blush. “He’s one of my favorites too.”

The corner of Camila’s smile curls upwards. “I knew it.” She swims even closer to you. “You should really see the documentary. I watched it last week and it’s so good. I couldn’t believe the truth in all of it.”

You’re intrigued right away. “What truth?”

She looks you. “Dancing only for yourself. Not just because you can, or because other people tell you to.”

It feels like something catches in your throat, but before you can do anything, Camila says, “Have you seen his _Take Me To Church_ video?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah – once or twice or so.”

She grins at you. “You want to see it?”

“What, now?”

She nods, already swimming over to the other edge of the pool, where her jacket is lying on the ground. She wipes her hands on the sleeves, before pulling her phone out of the pocket. “Come here. I’ve been studying it for my solo.”

You swim up until you’re next to her, both of you leaning on the edge of the pool, Camila’s phone between you. You try not to feel how her bare arm is brushing against yours, try not to look directly at her face.

She searches through her videos and then pushes ‘play’, filling the air around you with the low chords of the music playing in the video. It takes you a second to get into it, but as soon as Sergei Polunin does his first _grand jeté_ , you’re unable to take your eyes off Camila’s phone screen.

It feels like you can’t breathe for three minutes straight.

“Damn,” you mumble, after the screen goes black. “I forgot how good it was.”

“Right?” Camila’s face is close to yours. “He’s just so _powerful_. I just – I want to dance like that, you know. That’s all I want to be able to do.”

You turn and her gaze locks right into yours. Drops of swimming pool water in her eyelashes. Dripping down her cheekbones. Your throat feels dry.

“It’s a statement,” Camila says then. “The whole video is a statement. I sometimes forget that dancing is so much more than just aesthetic.”

Your blood heats up. You swallow hard under her gaze. You know exactly what kind of statement she’s talking about, but you’re— you don’t want to think about—

Camila’s face is so close to yours, and you need to break the tension, before you do something stupid, so you quickly breathe out, “Can I see your solo?”

Something shifts across her face. Then, she says, “I haven’t really started it, yet – it’s all still in my head. But maybe—” Her voice shifts a little. “Maybe I could show you in a couple of days?”

She looks at you and you want to press your apology – all of your apologies – right against her lips—

“ _Fuck._ ”

The moment snaps as Camila’s gaze shifts right over your shoulder and you catch sight of the same guard from before, approaching both of you and yelling very loudly. Your stomach drops.

“Shit,” Camila swears again. “We have to go.”

She pushes herself up on the edge of the swimming pool, grabs her clothes and takes off running in the direction of the elevator, leaving you no choice but to do the same. The guard tries to step in Camila’s way, but she’s too quick for him, already pressing the button of the elevator to open the doors. You only barely manage to reach the elevator in time, right before Camila slams the _close_ button and the elevator starts to shoot down.

“Oh my God,” she laughs, pulling her shirt over her head and slipping into her shorts, dripping water all over the carpet of the elevator floor. “I think they figured out _Cabello Marketing Group_ doesn’t exist.”

The second the elevator hits the ground, you slip into your shoes and Camila says, “Get ready to run.”

She grabs hold of your wrist and it’s a _whirlwind_ – through the fancy entrance hall, running faster than the doormen, laughing and screaming until you’re on the streets. She keeps running, keeps pulling you along through the darkness and the buzz of the city, only coming to a halt when you’re in a quiet street, both out of breath and not able to go on for a second longer.

Your clothes are sticking to your body and Camila is leaning against the wall, still laughing, her hair a messy explosion, her eyes so alive and excited and—

She steps right up to you and kisses you.

It lasts all of three seconds and then she breaks away again, eyes blown wide. “Fuck.”

You’re gasp for air.

“Fuck, that was stupid,” she says, leaning away. “I wasn’t thinking. I – _damn it_ – power of habit, I guess. I just—”

You push her right back against the wall and kiss her again, tasting nothing but heat and chloride and _Camila_ —

It ends as quickly as it begun.

“Sorry,” you say, stepping away the second you can feel yourself getting lost in it. “That was – yeah – power of habit.”

Both of you are panting, hair wet, uncomfortable in your clothes, staring at each other.

“We should—” Camila says. “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I’m with Austin,” she says.

“I know,” you say. “Sorry – I – _sorry_.”

She looks at you and you think she knows that you’re not only apologizing for kissing her.

“We shouldn’t do that anymore,” she says. “I don’t want to – I don’t want all the… I’m with Austin and you are… you are with Brad, I guess, and that’s fine, Laur – that’s – you slept with Brad and I’m ok. Really. You didn’t have to be with me, or anything, and I knew that. I know that. But you can’t—” She looks at you. “We can’t do that. You said you didn’t want to do that anymore.”

It doesn’t sound like an accusation, but it should have.

You think about Lucy – about what Lucy said.

“I know,” you say. “I know.”

Camila stares at you and several moments pass in which neither of you says anything. Then, she takes a deep breath. “You still want to help me out with my solo?”

You nod, before you’ve even thought about it. “Yeah, of course.”

Camila smiles faintly. “Platonically.”

You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “Right. Of course. Platonically.”

The word tastes foreign on your tongue, but Camila gives you a faint smile when you take a couple of steps back, creating more distance between you. You take a sharp inhale. The tension softens slowly.

_Platonically._

This is probably one of the most rational things Camila and you have ever done – and yet, you can’t stop the racing of your heart.

//

The second after she’s finished with her audition, Camila directs her attention to your mother.

“Mrs. Jauregui, thank you for your time, but I’m not going to be able to participate in the summer school.”

There’s nothing short of a shock wave going through the theatre, because you’re still catching your breath from watching Camila perform her solo, and you’re not the only one who seems to have trouble breathing.

Camila bites her lip hard, and then she says, “I have other commitments. I have to help out at home. Barcelona is not an option for me. I’m sorry. Thank you for your time, though. I hope you will still assess my solo.”

She makes another _réverence_ and then clears the stage to make way for Eva.

//

You confront her about it as soon as you’re out of the theatre. “Are you serious?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“But there must be other options! Maybe you can—”

“Lauren,” she says. “I can’t spend two months in Spain. There’s no way. I talked to my dad and it’s just not possible. I can’t go.”

“But—”

She walks past you, in the direction of the doors. “Don’t waste your breath. I’ve already decided. I’m staying home.”

It stings in your chest. You catch your mother’s eyes and for a second it’s like she can see something on your face, because her eyebrows frown in a very particular way that you don’t really recognize – but she doesn’t say anything and you have to swallow hard, because deep down inside you also know that it’s probably for the best that you and Camila won’t be spending two months in heated Barcelona together.

//

The departure hall at _JFK_ is buzzing with people, despite the fact that it’s almost midnight. If there’s anything that’s causing the overwhelming stress, it’s your mother, trying to make sure that all fifteen of you are present and checked-in and none of you have managed to forget your pointe shoes.

You’re sitting on a bench next to Keaton, who almost didn’t make it, despite his well-rehearsed solo. He got Camila’s spot.

“Are you ready for your Spanish summer romance?” you joke.

“Junior,” Keaton says, “My focus is going to be on ballet and on ballet only.”

“Oh, please,” you laugh. “As if you got a new haircut for ballet’s sake.”

You move to run your hands through it, but Keaton grabs your wrists. “Don’t you dare,” he snaps. “Reaching this degree of hair style perfection takes _a lot_ of time, Lo.”

You pull your wrists loose, scoffing. “Ballet and ballet only… yeah, right.”

“Isn’t that the purpose of the program?” Keaton says, shoving your shoulder. “International cooperation? Seeing what companies abroad may have to offer? _It’s all about discipline, Keaton_!” He grins “Sergeant Jauregui gave me the whole speech half an hour ago when you so kindly shoved me into the backseat of the cab with her. It sounded like she’s not going to let us off her watch for even a minute.”

You laugh. “We’ll just have to get her drunk on _cava_. She drinks it like lemonade.”

“As if you can buy—” His face shifts. “Wait, what time is it?”

“Two minutes past twelve.”

You’re not the one who answers Keaton’s question.

Your gaze snaps up and it’s like your whole chest explodes instantly. She’s standing right in front of you, dark hair pulled up in a messy bun, hand resting on a suitcase. She grins at Keaton. “Looks like we’re going to have to share the spot after all, Stromberg.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t even talk.

Keaton jumps up. “Really? What happened?”

“I get to stay for a month,” Camila says. “After that, I fly back to New York again. Of course, it’s not ideal, but it’s so much better than—”

The rest of the sentence dies in her throat when Keaton wraps his arms around her and gives her a hug.

“ _Yes_ ,” he yells out. “I thought I would be stuck together with Lauren as my only company all summer.”

You’re still too shocked to say anything, let alone respond with something witty. You’re just staring up at her, unable to stop.  

Camila glances at her phone and says, “Three minutes past twelve.” She gives you a smile that shoots down to the very center of your soul. “Happy birthday, Laur.” 

You’ve just turned eighteen years old.

—and this is where your summer begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> How are you feeling? They're going to Barcelona! ^^ :)   
> Let me know what you think about everything! Reading your comments always makes me feel so incredibly happy!  
> Thank you for reading. I love you all <3
> 
> -Blake
> 
> P.S. Go check out Sergei Polunin's 'Take Me To Church' performance on YouTube. It will take your breath away. It's one of my favorite ballet pieces ever and the message behind it is so, so important. Go watch it now. :)


	7. barcelona | july | part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hi guys!
> 
> It's been so long. Sorry for the wait! I'm the middle of my exams so I've barely had time to write, but at last... a new chapter :) When I started writing this chapter, it was supposed to be just a regular three-month chapter, but Barcelona quickly became too important, so I decided to make a seperate Barcelona chapter, focusing only on the things that happen in July. Then, that chapter quickly became over 10.000 words so I've decided to split it. So, what you get now is a 'Barcelona | July | Part I' chapter :) After 'Barcelona | July | Part II', I'll continue with the multi-month chapters again. This story is spiraling out of control... 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Sorry for the wait! Let me know what you think :)
> 
> -Blake

You’re sitting so close to the orchestra that you can feel the music beating inside of your body as you watch Camila take the London Royal Opera House by a storm; it’s the Rite of Spring, of course, but up there, on the stage, she’s all fire and skin and heat – and she makes you think of summer too.

She makes you think of the view from the _Turó de la Rovira_ ; the waves around your ankles; your favorite café in the whole city; scratchy piano melodies and dancing on the docks; vodka dripping down your throat—  

All these places in the world that hold the pieces of your heart, and Barcelona, the whole of it beating as a life of its own.

:::

**july**

:::

The sunlight makes Camila’s skin look tanner. If you’re staring at her legs for a second too long, no one bothers to call you out on it. She’s all rapid fire, rolling her ‘r’s with every Spanish syllable that curls itself around the base of your spin, the ease of it the most attractive thing you’ve ever heard. If you’re staring at her lips for a second too long, no one bothers to call you out on it.

You still haven’t quite registered the fact that she’s actually here. Not just participating in the summer school, but _here_ , in the streets where you’ve grown up, in the theatres you performed your first shows in, in a hotel room only a couple of doors away from yours _._ She was supposed to be in New York for the entire stretch of summer, but instead, she’s here, with you – smiling at you from the other end of the table in your mother’s favorite tapas restaurant; jumping up and down with excitement over the amount of bananas in the crowded _Boqueria_ ; on the beach, in light blue jean shorts and an unbuttoned flannel that is hanging loosely over her shoulders, screaming as she tries to push Keaton in the breakers, hair wild, head thrown back in laughter, smile over her shoulder aimed straight at you—

It kicks your fucking heartbeat right out of control.

You know there’s a reason people come to Spain in the summer. You know there’s something hot and charming and flirtatious about Barcelona. The city has the sharpest edge of irresistibility, and you’re all too familiar with its magnetic pull.

You try to ignore it, but you know that it’s only a matter of time until you, like everyone else, will fall under its spell.

(A city burning in the sun. A city for the reckless.)

//

“Oh my God—”

She’s right in front of you, and then she’s not.

It’s the very first day of classes and without any sort of explanation, Camila suddenly spins right on her heel and walks, runs, _sprints_ off in the direction of the very last barre, all the way at the back of the studio. You’re completely startled by the sudden movement, but you can’t help but follow her, quickly working your way through the groups of Spanish students, until you’re right in front of her again.

“Camz,” you start, half a confused smile on your face. “What the hell are you—”

“You didn’t tell me _she_ ’d be here—” Camila blurts out, blushing furiously, stealing panicked glances at the front of the studio where your mother is currently talking to a couple of dancers from the Barcelona Ballet who’ll be teaching the first masterclass.

You don’t get it. “What? Who?”

“ _Ally Brooke Hernandez_ ,” Camila whispers harshly, looking at you like you’re crazy for not understanding. “Oh my God – couldn’t you have given me a warning or something… I’m such a big fan – like, you don’t even know. I have at least twenty different posters of her and now she’s – I can’t believe she’s going to be teaching the masterclass. I can’t believe I’m even – Lauren, what if I screw up—” Her eyes go wide at the thought. “What if I screw up right in front of _Ally Brooke Hernandez_ and—”

You can’t hold your laugh back anymore.

Camila stares at you, before biting out, “What – why are you – _it’s not funny, Lauren_.”

You can’t stop laughing. “You’re nervous because of _Ally_?”

She gives you a glare that is such a crazy mix of emotions that you almost choke on your own breath, trying to control yourself. You quickly grab Camila’s wrist. “Twenty posters, huh? Come on. Ally’s a friend of the family. I’m going to introduce you.”

“No – fuck.” She pulls her wrist loose instantly. “No fucking way – Lauren, _no._ I don’t want her to see me. I’m going to behave like an idiot.”

You laugh even louder. “You _are_ behaving like an idiot.”

Ally catches your eyes from across the studio and before you can stop yourself, you happily wave at her, grinning when her face lights up in recognition.

Camila smacks your arm. “What the _fuck_ did you just do?”

“Ouch, Camz, you can’t just hit me like that…” You’re trying to sound hurt, but you can’t keep it up when you see the way her eyes go wide as Ally starts to make her way over.

“I’m going to kill you,” Camila snaps at you under her breath, right before pushing you away from her so she can pretend she’s practicing her _pliés_ at the barre. “I’m going to – oh, God – she’s coming over. Keep your cool, Lauren – just stay calm, stay calm, _stay calm_.”

“I think _you_ are the one who needs to—”

You can’t finish the rest of your sentence because there’s a high-pitched scream behind you and then you’re suddenly pulled against Ally’s tiny frame as she hugs you close.

“Lo!” she squeals in your ear. “I’m so happy to see you! It’s been way too long!” She pulls away for a moment, before leaning in again and kissing both your cheeks. “I was just talking to your mother. I can’t believe you’re going to be here for the entire summer!”

“Hi, Ally.” You smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

Ally beams at you, before turning right to Camila, eyes wide and excited. “Who’s your friend?”

Camila is looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen her, shifting on her pointe shoes, pulling on the left shoulder strap of her leotard, cheeks flushed red. You bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning. “This is Camila. She’s attending Fonteyn with me.”

Without any hesitation, Ally pulls Camila in for a hug and your heart almost gives out at the sight of Camila nearly fainting on the spot while she rambles, “Hi – I’m Camila Cabello – I mean – I’m Camila. I don’t know why I just said my full name. Actually, my full name is Kar— _never mind that_. Sorry, I’m a little nervous – and jet lagged and—”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Ally says, cutting her off and smiling widely. “Clara told me a lot about you, already.”

Camila’s face turns beet red. “Oh, really? That’s just – I’m really not… that’s ridiculous because I’m – I’m no one, really…”

It’s nearly impossible to keep yourself from cracking up again.  

Ally, oblivious to it, smiles sweetly at the both of you, before saying, “I’ve got to get back, girls. Class is going to start in a minute. I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you dance again, Lo.” Her face lights up. “You too, Camila.”

The second she’s turned her back to the both of you, Camila falls back against the barre in defeat, hands flying up to her face with embarrassment.

You grin, moving up on your pointe shoes to warm up _._ “See? Not a big deal at all. Ally’s the loveliest person in the whole world. And you—” Camila pulls her hands away to look up at you. “—you _almost_ managed to keep your cool around her, so…”

She pushes you right against your shoulder, making you lose your balance.

“Hey!” you snap, feigning anger, but only keeping it up for about a second before you crack up again.

Camila stares at you, biting her lip for another moment, but then she can’t hold her own laughter back anymore. She bumps your shoulder with her own, her head falling back as she laughs, and you think to yourself that the brushing feeling of her bare skin against yours and the sound of her laugh should _not_ be able to make your chest light up like this.

But it does – of course it does. 

//

Summer school in Barcelona is different from summer school in New York in so many ways.

Ballet classes are very demanding; the Spanish teachers are even stricter than Peter Martins and the level of technique that is expected of you even higher than before. This is the most disciplined environment you’ve ever been in; Fonteyn seems like a rowdy high school in comparison to how the dancers in Barcelona are trained. Classes are separated by gender, which makes the degree of competition higher than ever before. But – in contrast to summer school in New York – you get your weekends off in Barcelona, and that opens up an entire world of possibilities. 

This is where you’ve grown up. You know your way around better than anyone. The city beats right in the center of your chest, and everything comes to you effortlessly; finding your way through the maze of the Gothic Quarter, avoiding the massive groups of tourists, telling restaurant owners off in rapid Spanish when they assume you’re just another American tourist, throwing in some Catalan here and there to make your point. You know exactly how this city works and where to go.

Which is exactly why Keaton needs to shut up right freaking _now_ , before you kill him without ever having reached the Bunkers del Cermel. 

“Just for how long do we have to keep walking?”

“ _Keaton_ ,” you snap, “For the hundredth time, stop whining. We’re almost there.”

Camila laughs and Keaton groans, a good twenty feet behind the two of you as you make your way up the steep path.

“Junior,” he says, “My toes are about to fall off my fucking feet, ok? I think you’re underestimating the ballet horrors that I have to endure here on a daily basis.” He groans again, before hurrying to catch up. “You’re lucky you’re a girl – they’re all going easy on you.”

You spin around, eyebrows raised. “Does this look like they’re going easy on us?” You point down at your bandaged ankle. “ _You_ are lucky I’m not just abandoning you here right now, Stromberg. Now, suck it up – Lucy is waiting.”

At that, Keaton’s eyes go wide. “Wait – _what_?”

You bite your lip, internally scolding yourself for letting it slip. You quickly glance over at Camila who’s grinning at the way Keaton runs a nervous hand through his hair, suddenly trying to stand taller. You can’t help but smile at the look on her face; you told her about Keaton and Lucy yesterday during class.

“I thought Lucy was still on holiday in Italy with her parents.” Keaton stares at you. “She’s supposed to be in Verona tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes at the specificity. “They came back earlier. She arrived this morning.”

For a moment, Keaton’s exhale seems a little sharp, but then he pulls himself together and a confident grin spreads across his cheeks, as he says, “All right, well, in that case… Let’s go, ladies.”

Camila leans into you a little bit as she mumbles with a smile, “Look at his face. He’s like a little puppy.”

You can’t help but smile right back at her, the second in which you’re both staring at each other long enough to make your breath hitch almost uncomfortably. Before she can see the blush that is making its way up your cheeks, though, you quickly turn around and continue walking up the path to the old bunkers.

_Turó de la Rovira_ is one of your favorite places in the entire city. It’s the roof of Barcelona, the highest point, the best view. You’re about an hour away from sunset and the bright Friday night air couldn’t have been clearer.

There’s a glowing feeling in your chest the increases with every step you take. The sunlight seems to soothe your tired muscles, you’ve got two bottles of wine in your backpack and Lucy is bringing take-away tapas from one of your favorite places. You can’t believe how light you’re feeling, how happy and excited for having a night off. You can’t believe you’ll be doing what you would be doing on any other Friday night if you weren’t in a ballet academy on the other side of the ocean.

(You can’t believe she’s walking right ahead of you – _here_ – like this is something you just do now, hang out with each other; her smile contagious, her hair made messy by the breeze, her shorts _very_ short, legs strong and tan and—) 

There’s a scream and Lucy hugs Camila before she hugs you, the sight somehow shooting right to your chest, but then you’re pulled forward before you can think about it, and Lucy almost tackles you to the ground, laughing in your shoulder, lips against your cheek.

“Damn it, you were taking forever,” Lucy says, stepping back from you, with the widest smile on her face “I thought you might have—”

Her eyes catch on Keaton and she stops talking mid-sentence, before breathing out, rather startled, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Keaton smiles, before adding brazenly, “Don’t I get a hug?”

Lucy’s lips part and Keaton winks at her immediately. You’re ready to roll your eyes at him because it’s not like she’ll actually— but Lucy blushes. She _blushes_ , all nervous smile and running her hand through her hair and looking down at the ground.

You don’t even know what is happening right now.  

Before you can say anything, though, Lucy flicks her gaze up again with new-found composure as she extends her hand to Keaton and says, “I think a handshake will do.”

With a smile Keaton takes her hand. “Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”

You can feel your eyebrows rise, but then Lucy smiles _that_ smile at Keaton, right before pulling her hand back and turning her attention to you. “Shall we go to our spot?”  

She already takes off in the direction of one of the bunkers. You hurry after her, grabbing her wrist, before she can get away completely.

“What?” she says when she sees the look on your face, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Luce,” you breathe out, barely able to contain your excitement. “You gave him the smile.”

“What are you—”

“You gave him _the_ smile,” you say, before she can even finish her sentence. “Your fuck-I’m-so-into-you smile. It’s not even been three fucking minutes. _I knew it_.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, moving to climb on top of the high stones. “Lo, I didn’t give him _the_ smile. There is no such thing. I just smiled.” You glare at her, and she adds, “Like a friendly person, like a friend. Not that we’re friends, but – well, you know what I mean. A friendly gesture. Platonically. From one acquaintance to another.”

“ _From one acquaintance_ — are you kidding me?” you say, wide-eyed. “Look at your face right now! It’s like you’re—”

You’re about to finish your sentence but then you hear Camila breathe out _wow_ right next to you and your attention shifts back to her in a matter of seconds. She’s climbed up on the bunker as well and is now standing at the edge, looking at the view with her lips parted and her eyes glinting with excitement.

Something in your heart stutters a bit at the sight.

She turns to look at you, smile all soft and red and making you stare. “Oh my God, Laur – this is amazing.”

You bite your lip, breaking your gaze away from her to look around. It’s like your lungs finally catch the air. The city is completely spread out in front of you, glowing in the late evening light, it’s palette of color startling; the white and gray and pink of the buildings, the breaking blue of the ocean right behind it, the bright orange and red of the setting sun. You can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue.

When you turn back, Camila is biting down on her lip and you can’t help but run your gaze right over the freckles on her cheekbones, the dark of her eyebrows, the red of her lips, as she takes in the sight in front of her.

Abruptly, she looks at you and you’re almost startled out of it, almost tearing your eyes away instantly, but then Camila smiles and you’re locked, unable to move. You realize with a shock that you’re standing way closer to each other than you should considering the fact that she’s got a boyfriend and you’re supposed to keep things _platonic_ between you, which means no staring and no biting your lip and no touching—

The tips of her fingers fall against your wrist.

It only lasts for a couple of seconds, the briefest brush of her touch right against your racing pulse, and then Camila turns away again, eyes once again focused on the impressive view in front of you. It only lasts for a couple of seconds, but you’re burning right out of your skin.

You stumble back a little.

Lucy is grinning smugly at you and you can feel your face heating up in a way that has nothing to do with the weather. Hoping she won’t comment on it, you quickly take the bottles of wine out of your backpack, almost dropping them when Lucy mumbles under her breath, “That sexual tension, though…”

She laughs at the look on your face and for a moment you feel like pushing her right off the edge of the bunker, but then your muscles relax and you can’t help but lighten up and grin back, because _damn it_ , it’s summer and you’re in your favorite city, watching the sunset, sitting so close to the clouds that you can taste it. You can’t help it that Camila is looking so fucking pretty.

How could you not stare at her, really?        

//

You’re a little tipsy when you make your way across the city to go back to the hotel, skin still tingling with the day’s sunlight. Keaton and Lucy are walking behind you, caught up in some sort of discussion about a TV show you’ve never seen, talking over each other, when Camila suddenly says, “Do you want to dance with me?”

You’ve just reached Port Vell, which has quieted down as the hours of the day have slipped into night. The boats are swaying against the docks and the lights are making Camila’s eyes glint and you’re a little tipsy, so you’re not sure you’ve heard her correctly.

“What?”

She grins and then pulls on your hand, lifting your fingers to make herself spin under the arch of your arm in an impromptu _pirouette_. “Dance with me.”

It simmers in the pit of your stomach.

“There’s no music…” you mumble weakly.

Her eyebrow kinks up, along with the corner of her mouth. “Since when has that been a problem?”

You stare at her, thinking she must be tipsy too, thinking it must be the alcohol, because Keaton and Lucy are right behind you and you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t just—

“God, Lauren,” she says, tightening her grip on your fingers, pulling you into her a little, “You can’t ever just do something without thinking about it, can you?”

It works. It works right away, because it’s half accusation, half dare – and Camila knows the way her words get under your skin, making you push through your inhibitions instantly. She grins and you want to kiss it right off her face, but you can’t—

—and so you do the next best thing.

She gasps when you abruptly push off against her hand in a high _arabesque_ , right before pulling her body flush against you, spinning her with you into dancing.

The docks are no ballet floor and your worn-out _Vans_ are no pointe shoes, but you always dance your best when you dance with _her_ , and somehow, it’s like the whole city knows, because it seems to shift along with all your movements – the water and the lights and the darkness of the night. It’s been so long since you’ve danced with her, but your muscles never forgot, and now you’ve got your stage again.

You spin and run your hands down her sides and she’s all burning summer against you, laughing as she throws her head back when you lift her, like you’ve done so many times in dark studios in New York.

_God._

Your muscles chase her touch like they chase nothing else. Your fingers are aching with the stretch of her body. Your mind already spinning on thoughts that you should definitely not be thinking if you’re determined to make this work, if you’re trying not to be—

_Blue jean baby / L.A. lady / Seamstress for the band_

You’re startled out of your focus instantly.

With a shift, you break apart from Camila as the scratchy notes of Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’ curl around you, filling the air. It takes you a second to realize that the music is coming from Keaton’s phone.

You stare at him, a little confused, quickly realizing that you kind of forgot about Lucy and Keaton, all sense of time lost. They’re sitting on the edge of the dock with their feet in the water, watching you.

_Ballerina / You must have seen her / Dancing in the sand_

Camila laughs. “Could you be any more cliché, Keaton?”  

Keaton grins. “You two are the ones going all _High School Musical_ by breaking out into dance all of a sudden – I just thought I’d help you out.”

You catch Lucy’s eyes and she’s grinning at you.

Before you can stop yourself, you turn to Keaton. “You’re just jealous that Camila is a better partner than you.”

_Turning back / She just laughs / The boulevard is not that bad_

Keaton laughs and nods and says “I can see that” and there’s a smile working itself up from the core of your chest to your face. With a quick movement, you pull Camila right back against you as you, the skin of her cheek soft against your lips – and the alcohol and the night and the _summer_ pushing you into bravery – as you breathe out, “Let’s show these two idiots what good dancing really looks like.”

Somewhere in the moment that Camila’s shock shifts into a smile, you realize that you’ve never danced with her in front of other people. There’s a brief second of white, hot panic at the thought, something achingly familiar – but then her fingers fall to the bare skin of your hip, right under the hem of your shirt, and you forget about everything and everyone else.

//

Keaton has already disappeared into the hotel when you watch Lucy give Camila a hug, before she pulls you close and whispers something in your ear that sounds a lot like _don’t screw it up now_ which you think doesn’t really make sense, until she disappears behind the corner and you and Camila are suddenly alone.

You stare at your feet, subconsciously shifting your feet into fifth position, unable to move with the sudden nerves racing through your veins.

Then, Camila says, “Laur, come look at this.”

It takes you a second to realize she’s no longer standing next to you. Instead, she’s made her way up to the front of the hotel, sitting on the steps leading up to the entrance, leaning back and staring up at the sky.

A little awkwardly, you position yourself next to her, uncertain of how close you can get to her, of how close you _want_ to get to her. Camila doesn’t really seem to notice, eyes only drawn upwards to the sky.

On the shakiness of your exhale, you look up, and the sight of the stars hits you right in the center of your chest.

Some of it is the wine, already making your head spin on everything that is beautiful all night long. But it’s also everything else; the sheer force of the universe, building up right in your stomach with the view and the wine and the dancing on the dock and with _her_ , right next to you, somehow here, somehow at the reach of your fingertips.

“I miss my mom.”

Camila breathes it out on the wind, voice only slightly unsteady. You tear your eyes away from the burning lights, looking at her instead. Before you’ve even really registered the meaning of her words, Camila smiles softly as she turns to you and says, “I miss her so fucking much sometimes.”

Her eyes are dark and deep, the line of her mouth a little shaky through the smile. She’s looking at you like she searches for something, and before you can stop yourself, you shift forward a little. You don’t dare to touch her. You don’t hug her and you don’t grab her hand but you want her to know that you’re _here_ , you want her to know that you care, that you—

“Tell me about her.”

Camila stares at you, something changing in her eyes for half a moment, before her smile steadies on her face as she says, “You really want to know?”

You nod quickly, breathless with the way your heartbeat is racing in your chest, with the ache of how much you want her to trust you. “Yes – of course. Camz – of course I want to know.”

Camila’s smile curls further, and then she says, “She used to say she didn’t care for anything but dancing, until she met my dad.”

There’s something of a proud glint in her eyes that tightens around your ribs in a way you can’t really place. You stay silent, eyes caught on Camila’s, and she continues, words falling into the night, as easy as breathing. “When I was a kid, she’d tell me stories before bed and show me old pictures of when she was still studying at Juilliard. We’ve got a whole photo album filled with shots. She’s all ripped jeans, angry frown, ballet shoes, New York City kind of girl—” Something catches in your chest at the description, but before you can say anything, Camila adds, “She couldn’t care less about falling in love. She said she wanted to dance in all the different cities of the world, all the squares and all the rooftops and all the back streets. Just dance. Nothing else. She’d been interning at the NYCB as an ensemble dancer in the summer after graduation and she really didn’t want to fall in love – and then she met my dad.”

Something of a smile forms around Camila’s lips and for a moment she falls silent, clearly lost in thought with the memory.

Your voice is hoarse when you mumble, “What happened?”

Camila’s gaze shifts to you again and for a second the moment is entirely charged, as if both of you suddenly realize where you are, what you’re doing. You bite down on your bottom lip and you’re not supposed to want to shift closer to her, you’re not supposed to want to brush your fingers over her jaw just to feel the softness of her skin, to feel her against you as she talks. You’re not supposed to want it, but you’re thinking about it, thinking about it, aching fingers and all, and—

“She fell in love, anyway,” Camila says, a breath away from your face. “She didn’t want to, but it happened anyway.”

Her eyes flick down to your lips and your heart is beating so hard against the cage of your ribs, desperately, like it’s trying to beat itself free, trying to soar right up to the starts—

“My dad came to a show one night,” Camila says, and you try not to notice that it sounds a little breathless. “His roommate was dating one of the principal ballerinas, and my dad didn’t care for ballet one bit, but he didn’t have anything else to do that night and his roommate already had the tickets. He says that the moment he saw my mother on the stage, he fell in love – with her and with ballet and with everything. He says the he fell in love with the whole world that night, because—” Camila grins, as though it’s the corniest thing she’s ever heard, “… because it seemed to him that my mother had put the very stars in the sky to dance across them.”

Her smile curls further and she stares up at the night. You swallow as you understand it now.        

“Anyway,” Camila says, after a moment “My mother wasn’t so easily convinced. It took a really long time before they actually got together. They always seemed to love each other in turns, rarely at the same time.” Her voice softens as she adds, like it’s an afterthought, “Like the solo sections in a _pas de deux_.”

The beating of your heart is so loud that you’re sure she can hear it. Your skin is heating up inch by inch, stretch by stretch as you wonder why the hell you’re feeling so incredibly warm in the middle of the night.

“When they did fall in love eventually, it wasn’t long before I was born,” Camila continues. “My mother still danced for the NYCB and they didn’t have a lot of money, even though my dad worked full time. But I don’t think I ever noticed. Not until the medical bills started coming in, anyway.”

In half a moment, you cool off completely. The sudden hurt falls over you in the same breath that Camila says, “She was sick for almost three full years. Breast cancer. It was a long process, on and off. Every time we thought she’d beat it, it would come back again. She couldn’t dance anymore.”

There’s a slight crack in the bridge of her words and you can’t stop yourself anymore—

You grab her hand.

Camila seems startled by it for a second, but then she lets you interlace your fingers as she turns to look at you again. Her voice is softer when she breathes out, “That was the hardest part. To watch her be unable to do what she loved so very much.” There’s a slight shakiness to her word when she adds, “So – so I started to try and do it for her. To dance like I’m between the stars. I still do. Every day. I want her to be… I want to make her—”

She bites down on her lip, stopping herself from saying the word. You stay silent too, not knowing what to do besides running your thumb over the inside of her palm in soothing circles, as though you can press all that’s rushing through your chest right into her skin. There is so much that you want to say, if only you’d know how to express yourself. Your mind is spinning and you can’t make sense of your thoughts, can’t really figure out what it is that you want her to know most, this very moment.

“Camz—”

Her eyes lock in yours and in a breezy instant you struggle through the fragments of a sentence, anyway.

“I think she’d – when you… when you dance – there’s really nothing – I don’t think you know how _good_ you are – how there aren’t even—” Her mouth parts and the words almost fall into her as your breaths mingle together, “—there aren’t enough stars in the sky for you to dance across.”          

Camila stares at you. “Lauren…”

“She’d be so damn proud,” you add, quick and pressing, before the embarrassment catches up with you. “She’d – there’s not… there’s not a single version of the universe in which she isn’t proud of you.”

Camila’s breath visibly hitches and you can feel yourself blush under her heavy gaze. The tension of the words hangs between you, the brazen truth of what she does to you. How she makes you feel. How you’re never able to hide your admiration for her.

“God,” Camila mumbles, “Lauren – that’s – you’re so…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she brings her hand up to your face, the brush of her knuckles on your jaw fleeting but enough to channel all of what you’re constantly trying to press down right to the very center of your chest.

Without hesitation you pull your fingers loose from hers, before bringing her hand up to your sternum, making her fingertips curl right over your left collarbone, flattening her palm over your heart.

“Feel this.” Your voice is raspier than you want it to be. “This is how good you are. This is what happens every time I watch you dance.”

The second Camila feels the rapid beating of your heart through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, her eyes widen. She wets her lips, pressing closer, nothing between you but the _thud thud thud_ of your racing feelings.

It’s only half a moment later that you realize you’ve let something slip that you really shouldn’t have; Camila’s face is inches from your own as she breathes out, “But I’m not dancing now.”

“R-right,” you stammer. “I just – I mean – like…”

There’s no excuse.

She’s got her hand pressed to your racing heartbeat and the point that you wanted to make has taken such an abrupt switch in a different direction that neither of you really seems to know what to do.

“I just meant – like, in like a general way—”

You swallow hard, fighting your blush, fighting the magnetic pull of her eyes, keeping your gaze shifting over her face, trying to avoid her eyes, because you know that the second you’ll look at each other directly, she’ll see it there. Then, the corner of Camila’s mouth curls upwards, smile only slightly smug as she pulls on your fingers and brings them right up to her neck, pressing them down on her pulse point.

“Shh,” she mumbles. “I know.”

Your fingertips catch fire on her heated, rapid pulse.

There’s a shift in the air between you as all the things you aren’t saying to each other press in on the both of you. For a second, it feels like you’re sixteen years old all over again, sitting in the back row of a chilly New York City theatre, entirely unraveled by the girl in front of you. For a second, it’s like you’ve never seen Camila before in your entire life, and this is the first moment; sitting together in a heated summer city, so captured by the way you can make each other’s heart race without even trying. For a second, this is the first moment; heavy brown eyes, soft skin, a charged half smile – and the past two years haven’t happened, nothing has happened between you yet.

(You’re sixteen and nothing has happened and you want to kiss her – slow and soft and confident and unashamed and making everything ok.)

There’s a heavy buzzing sound and you break away completely – both of you startled by the sound of Camila’s phone.

(You’re eighteen and everything has happened – the studio and the theatre and the roof top and the ice rink and the bathtub and your bed and her bed and Brad’s bed – and this is the truth and you don’t deserve to kiss her.)

Camila glances at her phone. “It’s nothing, just a text – my dad…”

She trails off and you say, “We should—” right at the same time that she adds, “It’s getting late, anyway—”

The way back through the corridors of the hotel is charged with tension. Neither of you says anything, but you’re unable to stop blushing with all of that you’ve said to her, all of what you’ve let slip.

Right before you reach your door, Camila grabs your wrist as she says, “Laur, I just – thank you. For… for everything you said.”

You run a quick hand through your hair and it’s entirely too breathy, when you mumble, “You’re welcome – I – of course.” 

Her gaze locks with yours for a second, and then she abruptly steps up to you and presses her mouth to the corner of your jaw. It’s not so much a kiss as it is the quickest brush of words into your skin as she mumbles, “Good night.”

She disappears out of sight before you can reply, and the sudden heat of your speeding heartbeat is enough to power an entire city block.

If she’d still have her fingers pressed against your skin, you’d probably burn her.

//

Saturday evening finds your mother thinking it’s a good idea to invite Camila and Keaton to join you for Sunday brunch the next day.

“They’re your friends,” she says, when she calls you on the phone, “Besides, it would be good for them to socialize and mingle with some of the company dancers and directors that I’ve invited. It would be good for you too, darling. It will give you a chance to develop some strong network relations for the future.”

If you’re being honest ‘developing strong network relations for the future’ sounds like the most boring thing you could be doing at the moment, but you know there’s no arguing when it comes to Sunday brunch. It’s important to your mother and you know she won’t take no for an answer.

“I’ve made reservations at _Enoteca_ ,” she adds, before you can even try to decline the offer. “So make sure that Keaton and Camila will dress for the occasion. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, darling.”    

She hangs up before you can say anything.

//

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to knock on Camila’s hotel room door. You feel a little nervous in the chic dark blue dress that your mother instructed you to wear, with your hair and make-up done perfectly. You take a deep breath, running your hand over the hem to straighten the fabric once more, before realizing that you can’t really stall for that much longer, so you finally knock on her door.

As soon as Camila appears in the doorway, your heavy inhale goes in vain, because all the oxygen gets sucked right out of your lungs at the sight of her.    

“Hi,” she says, soft blush working its way onto her cheekbones. “Is this ok for brunch? I didn’t really bring anything that fancy, so I hope this is what your mother meant when she said to dress up…”

You blink once, twice – feeling your cheeks grow hotter by the second as you take her in, because _oh God_.

She’s wearing a short, white summer dress with very subtle patterns weaved through the nice fabric, her dark hair is hanging down her shoulders in long, tangled curls, and she’s wearing heels, which makes it completely impossible for you to keep yourself from running your gaze up and down the length of her legs and _oh God._  

Her gaze catches on your mouth. “Wow, I love your lipstick. Can I borrow it?”

You haven’t said anything and you can’t say anything, not when you search your purse in a haze to pull out your lipstick and you watch Camila put in on immediately. There’s something about seeing her mouth covered with your favorite shade of red that has got your throat go dry.

Camila gives you a smile and then she says, “That certainly fancies it up. Shall we go?”

You’re still staring at her.

It’s not until she’s walked past you into the corridor and looks around that you suddenly shift back into reality, blurting out, “Yeah – let’s – you look so… I mean, yeah, _let’s go_.”

You stop talking because you’re stammering through your sentence and you don’t want to confuse Camila with the way you’re not able to form a coherent phrase. But something in the glint of her eyes gives you the feeling that she knows exactly why that’s happening.  

//

It’s the same dull spectacle as always; a fashionable bar; tiny sandwiches with cream cheese and salmon; your mother’s ‘friends’ too quickly tipsy on the champagne, everyone laughing too loudly and talking too loudly and constantly trying to one up each other when it comes to professional creativity; everyone only talking about themselves.

Sunday brunch in Barcelona is not that different from Sunday brunch in New York City.

Your mother is ecstatic when she sees you. She makes her way over – her most beautiful dress and her most expensive earrings and the right kind of arrogance for places like this, for occasions like this – and she kisses you on both your cheeks, before turning to Keaton and Camila. She smiles fondly at Camila, telling her she looks lovely, and then her eyes fall on Keaton, widening at the sight. He’s tried his best with his nicest white shirt and a black tie, but is naturally failing your mother’s demands with the shorts and sneakers he also decided on. 

You bite your lip to stop your laugh.

Keaton quickly grabs your mother’s hand and presses a kiss to it. “Clara, looking beautiful as always.”

Your mother purses her lips, “That’s still Mrs. Jauregui for you.”

She’s not entirely able to hide the way her face softens, though, as she turns towards the rest of the room and starts pointing people out at you, explaining which company they belong to and what kind of position they hold.

You’re not really listening, until you hear Camila suddenly hiss under her breath, “ _Fuck_ – she’s here.”

Even before following her gaze, you already know who she’s talking about. Feeling your smile curl around your lips, your eyes catch on Ally, who is standing on the other side of the room, talking to a tall man in very well-tailored suit.

You can’t help but lean into Camila a little as you whisper, a little teasingly, “Want to go talk to your idol, Camz?”

She narrows her eyes at you and mumbles weakly, “Don’t be like that again…” 

You laugh softly, before wrapping your hand around her wrist and making your way through the crowded room, ignoring the panicked look Keaton gives you for leaving him alone with your mother. “Come on, between all these stuffy, old ballet fanatics, Ally’s the only one we can actually have some fun with.”

As soon as she catches sight of you, the widest smile breaks on Ally’s face as she quickly excuses herself to the man she’s talking to, before hurrying over to wrap both you and Camila in a tight hug.

“Girls,” she squeals. “I’m so happy to see you. You both look absolutely stunning.”

You smile at her. “So do you, Ally. Right, Camz?”

Camila stutters out something incomprehensible. You bite your lip, smiling so hard at the endearing way her face is flushed with nerves. She runs a hand through her hair and then mumbles, “So – what, uh – what show are you – I mean, what are you currently dancing in – like, what are you…”

She trails off but Ally catches the meaning, of course, and starts to explain how she’s currently involved with the Barcelona Ballet. The more she talks, the more Camila loosens up and after fifteen minutes, the two of them are laughing together like they’ve known each other for years – especially when Ally takes a babbling run down memory lane.

“When we were kids, Lo and I both went to the same ballet academy, here in Barcelona,” Ally says, “She was actually in a lot of my classes, despite the age difference. Lauren could be quite the rebel, sometimes.” Ally grins at Camila and you can feel yourself blush a little for some reason. “Her mother’s daughter, of course. If things didn’t go her way, she’d throw the worst fits, and of course, no one dared to say anything about it. We were all completely intimidated by her strength and her talent, and because she’s Jauregui through and through of course. But one day, I found her crying in the empty theatre—”

“Ally—” you start.

“—she told me she lost her stuffed animal – you know, Nala? She must still have it. I mean, she used to bring it with her to class every single day, cuddling it in the breaks and—”

“ _Ally_.”

You try not to notice Camila’s amused eyes on you, when Ally says, “Anyway, she was up there on the stage, crying her eyes out over her lost stuffed animal, and so eventually, I walked up to her and swallowed my nerves and I told her I’d help her find it, and that’s how I discovered that Lo is actually, the sweetest, softest person in the whole world.”

“Ok, I think that’s enough reminiscing,” you mumble.

Ally wraps her arm around your waist, laughing it off as she says, “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. You were the cutest.”

You can feel Camila’s eyes on you and when you look up to meet her gaze, she’s looking at you with the softest expression, smile wide, the light reflected in her eyes in the most mesmerizing way. You blush even more.

“Excuse me, Miss Cabello?”

All three of you spin around to face the woman who’s appeared behind Camila. She’s tall, with semi-short dark hair and an elegant stance. She’s clearly been a dancer herself; you can see it right away in the line of her shoulders, the way her spine is arched.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, addressing Camila directly. “My name is Jessica Clarke. I teach at the Royal Ballet Upper School in London. Could I speak to you for a moment?”   

For a second, Camila’s eyes flick over in your direction, but then she turns to the woman and says, “Of course.”

“Let’s talk over at the bar,” the woman says, before appearing out of sight, Camila hesitantly following her.

Ally gives you a smile, before leaning over to a counter behind you and grabbing two glasses of champagne.

“Here,” she says, handing you one of the glasses, “In case your mother suddenly stops by, please pretend I didn’t just do that.”

You can’t help but laugh, taking a sip of the champagne. 

“So,” Ally says then.

“What?” you ask, when she doesn’t elaborate.

There’s a slight glint in her eyes when she adds, casually, “Camila is a very nice girl.”

Something in her voice curls tightly around your ribcage, but you choose to ignore it, fighting your blush when you mumble, “Yeah, she is.”

“She’s very pretty too,” Ally said, smile only widening. “Don’t you think?”

You can feel your gaze shoot up. Running a quick hand through your hair, you cough, trying to keep your voice steady as you say, “Uh – I – I guess. I don’t really – I haven’t really noticed.”

It’s a complete lie. It’s such a lie that even Ally seems to see right through it. You take another gulp of champagne, swallowing it down quickly, while Ally hums a little, examining your face closely.

“Lo,” she says, then, “Do you like her?”

It’s such a direct question that you choke on your champagne. Coughing roughly, you let Ally pat your back for a moment, as you stammer out, “ _What_ – what are you – no, Ally – what – that’s just… no, no.”

Ally’s eyes widen for a moment, taken aback by your reaction. But then her smile takes over again, as she asks, eyebrows raised, her voice entirely genuine, “You sure, Lo?”

You stare at her, eyes wide in disbelief. Your heart is beating loud in your chest, your palms all slick with sweat suddenly and there’s a stinging panic rising under your skin—

Ally shrugs, before you can say anything. “You kind of look at each other like you can’t quite believe the other person is real.” She smiles softly. “So, I just kind of thought… maybe you like her a little bit.”

You bite down on your bottom lip.

“I…” Your breath catches in the back of your throat. “Ally – I…”

“ _Oh my god—_ ”

You spin around, completely startled by Camila’s sudden reappearance. She’s got the widest smile on her face and she’s practically jumping up and down with excitement. Before Ally or you can say something, she already starts rambling, exclaiming excitedly, “You won’t believe what just happened. That was Jessica Clarke, she works for the London Royal Upper School and she said she noticed me during our showcase performance last week – and now she gave me her card and told me to get in contact if I’m ever interested in internships or anything – the _London Royal Upper School_ – can you believe it? Lauren, can you believe that actually just happened?”

You can feel the smile spread on your face as you watch her wave her hands around, all excitement and happiness and—

You step forward and hug her.

It’s a spur of the moment decision, one you sort of immediately regret when you find your face suddenly pressed in the crook of her neck and she’s all heat in your arms. You’re overcome completely by the softness of her skin and her hands on your hips and her scent, as she falls against you so easily, like it’s the _easiest_ thing to just hug you back.

When you break away, she gives you a smile that shoots right down your veins. You can feel yourself blushing, especially with Ally’s eyes on you and the words of your brief conversation still ringing in your mind, but Camila looks so happy and carefree and if she’s giving you _that_ kind of smile you can’t really think straight anymore.

“Do you want to get out of here?” you ask. “Ditch this stuffy restaurant and go to a place that’s actually nice.”

Camila bites down on her lip, and then she says, “Yeah, let’s go.” 

//

Keaton has disappeared out of sight, so you send him a quick text that just reads _Carrer de Sant Domènec del Call 12_ for if he wonders where you’re off to. Then, you say goodbye to Ally, ignoring the smile she gives you as you pull Camila out of the restaurant before your mother catches you slipping away barely half an hour after you arrived. 

Tucked away in the heart of the Gothic Quarter, you find _Caj Chai_ still quiet, only just opened, its yellow doors standing wide to let anyone who wants to visit into the tea house.

It’s one of your favorite places in the entire city.

With the faded paint on the walls, its weird antique chairs and squeaky tables, it doesn’t try to be fancy and modern like so many other places, but it has your favorite kind of atmosphere, one that is rare to find; the scent of the Indian herbs is always heavy in the air, the languages of the different kind of customers mixing pleasantly, people talking with each other instead of staring at their phones. Terrible wi-fi.

Camila’s got a smile on her face from the second she steps through the door. After you’ve talked to Maria, who’s standing behind the counter, for a moment, you make Camila order the classic Indian Chai with milk and honey that you like so much, and you can’t help but feel a little smug and proud when she takes her first sip and then breathes out, with wide eyes “Oh my God, this is fucking delicious…”

For the longest time you just sit in silence, taking sips of your tea and looking at each other, smiling at the fact that you’re somehow ended up here, with the two of you, in a near empty tea house in the middle of crowded Barcelona.

“So,” Camila says then. “If I am to believe Ally, you were quite a dramatic child, huh, Laur? Throwing tantrums and crying in empty theatres.”

She bites her smile back and you know she’s joking, but at the same time there’s a very slight sting in the center of your chest that increases when you shrug and mumble, your voice sounding a little strained, “Well, yeah, it wasn’t always fun.”

At that Camila’s smile fades, before she says, “Tell me about it.”

For a second your gaze crosses hers and you swallow hard at the way she repeats the words you said to her last night back at you. Then, you lean somewhat back in your chair, pushing your empty tea glass away from you. “Days were long. Every ballet class was an assessment. I don’t remember ever dancing without people paying attention to the way I did it.”

You shift a little, feeling a little awkward talking about it so openly, but Camila just looks at you, waiting for you to continue, and so you try to shrug off the uneasiness.

“All that I did was for analysis,” you tell her. “To check my level of technique, to see if I could move another class up. I couldn’t play any other sports. I had to do my homework in the studios. They measured everything, all the time – my weight, my length, the stretch of my legs, the turn-out of my knees.”

Camila’s expression is so intent that it shakes you out of it for a moment, but then you blurt out, sounding harsher than you intend, “You know, if I ever have children, I’m going to let them try everything to see what they like. I don’t care what it is – sailing, hockey, horseback riding, geeky science stuff, ceramics for all I care. I want them to try everything and then they can pick for themselves. No one decides for them.” 

There’s something in the silence that falls after your words, something in the way Camila looks at you, all concentration and focus and _something else_. You feel a little heated, a little embarrassed for speaking these thoughts out loud.

But then Camila says, “That sounds like a good idea.”

She smiles softly and only then you realize she’s holding your hand, stroking her fingers over the back of it. You didn’t realized either of you had reached out.

“It was also great, of course,” you say. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know that I’ve been really lucky when it comes to education and resources, but…” You hesitate, not really sure how to explain it, “Sometimes I just feel like all everyone really sees are my pointe shoes or my leotard or the line of my neck or the stretch of my feet. Sometimes I feel like I’m just dancing and dancing and dancing and everyone watches but no one even sees.”

The thought doesn’t make much sense to you, but Camila looks as if it’s hit something solid right in the center of her body.

She tightens her grip on your fingers and then she smiles, flicking her eyes down bashfully as she mumbles, “I think I see you.”

The words hang heavy between you.

“Sometimes,” Camila adds, a little hoarse. “Sometime I think I get glimpses. When you push past your technique and break away from your familiar structures, it’s – I love that so much. I love it when you allow for that to happen.” Her gaze finds yours again. “It’s like you lose all control, and you’re just… you’re so fucking gorgeous when you dance like that. You don’t even know. So fucking irresistible.”     

Your stomach flips hard at the word _irresistible_ and the air between you is full with unplanned confessions and not-entirely-subtle compliments and there’s a heavy stretched out moment in which you can only hear the faint ringing of your heartbeat in your ears and you can only look right into Camila’s eyes and you can only think, over and over again, _kiss her kiss her kiss her kiss her_ —

She wets her lips, pupils dilating slightly under your gaze, and then the moment breaks, because you abruptly look away again.     

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I can’t believe I just told you all of that. It’s – you must think…”

Camila’s laugh sounds a little strained as she jokes, “As a said, quite a dramatic child…”

You look down at the table, forcing yourself to laugh. “Yeah…” You get abruptly to your feet, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Camila nods and gets to her feet as well. As you make your way back into the Gothic Quarter again, you try to ignore the fact that you’re pretty sure that you almost kissed two times already in the past twelve hours.

This should not become a regular occurrence.

//

(You happen to pass through the _Carrer de Bisbe_ on your way back, walking right under the impressive neo-Gothic bridge that has all the tourists halting to take pictures. When you tell Camila it’s your favorite street in the entire city, she smiles in a way that makes you want to push her right up against the wall and kiss her senseless, right there in the shadows of the beautiful bridge, but you don’t do it. You don’t do it.)

//

The week passes in a bit of a blur, and the next thing you know is Lucy having convinced you that it’s a great idea to go out and get drunk on Saturday evening.

“Come on,” she says, “You’ve got to show those ballet kids you go to school with why Barcelona is the best city in the world, Lo. It’s summer.”

You stare with shock at the state of chaos that your favorite bar has reached during the past two hours. Loud music. People dancing. Drinking. Your head’s already spinning along with it – too many shots being pushed in your hands, too many fruity cocktails tasting sweet on your tongue, as if everyone has all of a sudden decided to be your best friend, now that you’ve brought them here.

Everything is blurry and spinning and you feel completely heated.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can vaguely remember that you’ve all got an excursion to the _Palau de la Musica_ tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock, but everyone seems to have completely forgotten about that. You can only hope your mother won’t blame you for the collective hangover that she’ll have to deal with.

Keaton hands you another shot of whatever. You’ve already lost count, but the way you dizzy when you close your eyes, may be an indication that you shouldn’t take it. 

“Come on, Junior,” Keaton slurs. “You need to stop worrying about Sergeant Jauregui. It’s summer.”

You roll your eyes. “You and Lucy need to stop teaming up against me.”

Keaton laughs and you take the shot from him, anyway. He’s looking ridiculously happy – hair all messy, skin a little burned from the constant exposure to sun, Lucy’s black snapback bouncing his curls. You can’t help but laugh as you bring the tiny glass up to your lips, your judgement already fading. The liquor burns down your throat.

When you look at Keaton again, he’s grinning at something over your shoulder.

“What?” you say.

The corner of his mouth curls even more. “Your girlfriend’s coming over.”

Heat shoots up to your cheeks and your heart stutters. “What—”

“Gotta go,” he says, before abruptly disappearing in the dancing crowds.

You don’t even have a second to scold him, because Camila steps up to you and your attention shifts entirely to her.

“Hi,” she says, voice completely unsteady.

You try to keep yourself from smiling too hard. It’s the alcohol, but it’s also… her. “Hi.”

“So,” she says, hand on her hip, leaning into you. “This is where Lauren Jauregui spends her wild and rebellious nights?”

She’s got her hair pulled up in a loose bun, smile as charming as ever. You can’t take your eyes off her lips.

“Only some of them,” you say and Camila laughs.

Your eyes fall to the glass in her hand. “What’re you drinking?”

Camila rolls her eyes. “It’s Keaton’s. A bucket of vodka, it seems – he said I could use the liquid courage, or something. I don’t really know what he was talking about.”

Something hot and burning has settled in the center of your chest. She’s standing so close to you that she’s almost pressed up against you. It messes with your head – more than the alcohol.

“Do you miss Austin?”

The words have left your mouth before you can stop yourself. Camila’s eyes go wide.

“Sorry—” you say, “I don’t – it’s none of my business—”

Camila stare at you, shifts forward a little more. “I broke up with him the day before we flew out here.”

_What._

You stare at her, unable to register what she just said. “You – you did what?”

She frowns a little. “I broke up with him. I thought I told you already. We weren’t really working out and I didn’t want to string him along all summer.”

_What. The. Fuck._

She shrugs it off as if it’s nothing, as if it doesn’t meant that for the entire duration of the summer school and every time you’ve been together, she’s— she didn’t— she wasn’t—

“Are you ok?” Camila says, eyebrows rising higher.

You snap out of it. “Yeah. It’s – it’s – just really hot here”

Camila grins and then stares down at her cup. “This has ice in it.” She laughs a little nervously, as if the sudden tension between you has hit her too. “Maybe you should try and piss me off, so I could throw it over your head. A night in a bar is not complete without someone getting a drink thrown in their face.”

The alcohol is spinning in your head, and you’re now completely sure that Camila isn’t very sober either, because she’s not really making any sense.

_None of this is making any sense._

“You wouldn’t,” you mumble, absentmindedly.

The corner of Camila’s mouth curls up. “You think I wouldn’t throw my drink in someone’s face?”

You bite your lip back. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re too nice.”

“This is a kind of dangerous thing to say, Laur…” she says, teasing you now. “Considering.”

Your eyes flick down to the glass she’s holding, tension in your stomach. “You really wouldn’t.”

She stares at you, one eyebrow kinked up and you smirk. It happens so quickly that you barely register the movement of her hand, but Camila doesn’t hesitate for even a second before throwing the half full glass of vodka right over your head.

“ _Fuck—_ ” you swear. “Camila – what the—”

You swear loudly as you feel the liquid dripping down you your face, your jaw, your neck. You can’t believe what is happening, can’t believe she just—

There’s only a second in which Camila winks at you, and then she leans forward and runs her mouth right over the column of your throat, licking all over you, taking every drop of vodka from your skin with her tongue and her mouth and her lips and—

Heat shoots down your body, explodes between your legs.

_Jesus. Fuck._

Everything around you blurs – the music, the people, everything – and you only feel Camila’s tongue trailing upwards to the spot below the corner of your jaw, where she sucks right on your pulse and then breaks away, leaving you a trembling mess in the overcrowded Spanish bar.

She licks her bottom lip, before biting it back with her teeth as she says, “Sorry, I think I spilled my drink.”

You can’t even say anything, your intoxicated mind only spinning in thoughts of wanting to drag her along with you to the nearest bathroom so you can run your hands all over her, push your fingers up that fucking skirt she’s wearing and making her moan so loud that the whole damn city will—

Camila’s grin curls wider and she _knows_. She fucking knows what you’re thinking about. She’s been knowing all damn summer already.

“Camz—”

She quirks her eyebrows up and she’s challenging you with her eyes, with her whole body, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend and you’re drunk and you _want_ her, and so you step forward, only to be halted when Lucy suddenly appears out of nowhere and grabs your wrists, coming to stand right between you and Camila.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever the hell was happening over here,” she says, giving you a really hard look, before adding in a rushed pace, “But apparently your mother is on her way over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey lovely people :) 
> 
> I hope you all liked that! Let me know your thoughts! Sorry for the cliffhanger haha.   
> I hope you all have a great day, wherever you are in the world.
> 
> -Blake


	8. barcelona | july | part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey guys :)  
> So, I've been sick in bed today and I wrote 9000 out of the 11000 words of this chapter in one feverish haze, so I hope all of it makes sense and it doesn't feel rushed. I tried to check it for mistakes as well as I could, but it could be I missed a couple of typos and stuff.   
> Hope you all like this part :) Barcelona, part II.  
> Disclaimer: I haven't actually been to Montserrat or the Stairway to Heaven sculpture, so that whole scene is based on what I found on the internet. Just so you know.   
> Lots of things happening in this chapter. Get ready for it.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading and for leaving kudos/comments! Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one!   
> -Blake

There’s more than a thousand miles between the place where you grew up and where you’re currently seated in the London Royal Opera House – but the taste of Barcelona is burning right on your tongue. The dust of the hiking trail, salty beach air, burning alcohol from plastic red solo cups, Camila’s mouth right on—

Not yet.

First, there’s the bar and the night and the heat and her smile. Drops of vodka on her lips. First, there’s this.    

:::

**july**

:::

“Your mother is on her way over.”

It sobers you right up.

“ _Fuck – what—_ ”

“Chris just called me,” Lucy snaps. “You need to get out of here _right now_.”

“But I – what is – how do you—” you stammer, not able to move into action yet. Your head is spinning. Your body is entirely taut with unresolved tension, hips still angled in Camila’s direction. You try to look at her over Lucy’s shoulder.

“He tried to call you, but you weren’t answering your phone,” Lucy says, grabbing your shoulders rather roughly, barely lowering her voice when rolls her eyes and snaps, “Jesus, Lo – how about a little less eye-fucking right now a little more focus on the fact that your mother is minutes away from—”

The door of the bar slams open and your heart drops to your stomach.

_Fuck._

The sight of your mother and the force with which she opened the door is enough to cause a wave of disruption in the bar. There’s half a confused moment and then your classmates all seem to realize at once _who_ is standing in the doorway to the bar.  Disruption fades into shocked and fearful silence. Even the bartenders look a little intimidated by your mother’s sudden appearance, though they clearly don’t realize just how much you’re all about to be in trouble. 

Your mother’s eyes catch on you and your breath falters. Her voice is cold like ice when she says, “All of you. Outside. _Right now._ ”

//

With every “what on earth were you thinking” and “this is absolutely unacceptable” and “I am beyond furious with all of you” your mother spits out, the heavy haze inside your head clears more. Guilt is seeping through your veins. You stare at the ground, trying to avoid your mother’s eyes. Even though you’ve already arrived in the lobby ten minutes ago, it doesn’t look like she’s going to stop lecturing you any time soon. The other students are tensed up all around you, giving each other fearful looks when your mother once again bites out that the rules where very clear and she could easily kick all of you out of the summer school program at once.   

Keaton’s standing right next to you, hands shoved down the pockets of his shorts, eyes wide in shock. You try to give him something of a reassuring smile – you know your mother is not just going to suspend you all over this – but he doesn’t notice.

You swallow hard; the effect of the Clara Jauregui way of reprimanding is something you’re all too familiar with.  

“Off to bed,” your mother snaps finally, when it looks like half the girls are on the verge of crying. “Tomorrow morning, I want all of you ready at 8 a.m. sharp. No excuses. Anyone who is even a second late will be suspended for the rest of the program. Is that understood?”

There’s a soft murmur around you.

“Good,” your mother says. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to have a private word with my daughter.”

There’s something about the way she nearly spits out the last word that tightens in your chest. When you look up, you accidentally catch Camila’s eyes. She’s still standing pretty close to you and it sends a strange sort of shockwave through your body, because for a second you wish you could just grab her hand and keep her next to you for another moment longer, pull her close for reassurance.

You shake the thought off as soon as it pulses through you. You can’t do that. _That would be ridiculous._

Instead, you watch Keaton and Camila disappear in the direction of the elevators, leaving you standing in front of your mother with shaking hands.

Her gaze is harder than you’ve seen it in weeks.

“I assume this little _adventure_ was your idea,” she says, voice cold and low. For a second you’re tempted to say that it was Lucy’s, actually, but before you can even get a word out, your mother adds briskly, “Explain yourself, Lauren.”

You bite your lip back, rambling out a half-hearted excuse about stress relief and wanting your friends to have a good night out. Your mother isn’t buying any of it.

“I am appalled,” she snaps. “You are training to become a professional ballet dancer, for God’s sake. You should know better than to disrespect the rules. You know the aims of this program very well, and going to a bar, getting _drunk_ and peer-pressuring your classmates into doing the same is _not_ part of the curriculum, Lauren.”

You lower your gaze, feeling genuinely guilty.

“Now,” she says, “I know that you’re eighteen years old. You should be wise enough to make your own decisions and I know I can’t control every single thing you do in your free time. But I won’t have anything like this happen, again. Not under my watch. Not when my authority and respectability as a teacher are being put to the test in front of our partners. Have I made myself clear?”  

You nod. “Yes. Very clear.”

Finally, something in her gaze softens. She takes a couple of heavy breaths – in, out, in, out – and then, her shoulders lower and she looks a little bit more like your mom again.

“Mija,” she says.

The term of affection gives you space to breathe. Some of the tension in your chest resolves. “Yes?”

She looks you right in your eyes when she says, “I’ve been wondering about something. Are you – I mean, is there anything you might want to tell me about – anything about…” Her mouth parts and she looks like she wants to continue, but then she slowly exhales again and seems to decide against it. For some reason, you’re suddenly very aware of how fast your heart is beating in your chest. The moment stretches, and then your mother brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear as she says, “Did you have fun tonight?”

That, you did not expect.

“Uh,” you stammer. “Yes – I, uh – I did.”

Your mother nods. There’s a second in which you swear you can see the ghost of a smile around the corner of her lips, but then her expression shifts back to stern discipline again. “All right. Off to bed. You need to have a good night’s sleep. 8 a.m. sharp, Lauren. No excuses.”

You nod and turn around to walk in the direction of the elevators, feeling more than a little dazed and confused. You don’t have too much time to think about your conversation, though. After a quick shower – washing the vodka out of your hair while you try to ignore your heated cheeks – you’re suddenly overcome by heavy exhaustion. You quickly slip out of your clothes and fall down on your hotel room bed, grabbing your phone to set your alarms. When the screen lights up, you’ve got six missed calls from your brother and two new text messages.

Lucy’s text sends a shiver down your spine. _Do we need to talk about the fact that you looked like you were about two seconds away from ripping Camila’s clothes off?_

The other text message does not only make you shiver. It causes an explosion of heat in your veins. The brightly-lit words right under Camila’s name shoot right to the apex of your legs.

_If only we hadn’t been interrupted…_    

So much for having good night’s sleep.  

//   

Somewhere during your excursion at the _Palau de la Musica_ the next morning – which you barely register anything of due to a stinging hangover and maddening exhaustion – you realize that there are two weeks left. There are two weeks left and then Camila leaves to go back to New York and you will stay here in Barcelona.

The thought settles uncomfortably in your stomach.

It seems like Camila has realized it, too, because when you take a seat in the front row of the theatre, trying to pay attention to the tour guide’s discussion of the interior of the theatre, she leans over to you and mumbles, “So… was this on the list of things you wanted to show me in Barcelona?”

You give her a sleepy smile, trying to ignore the quick blush that makes its way up your cheeks, because obviously there’s no such thing as a _list_.

(That is, if you ignore the extensive note in your phone which you typed up in the airplane, which, yes, may look like it’s a bullet point collection of your favorite places in the city, but it isn’t really – you didn’t really – you only wrote it when she… well, it might look like a list, but it’s really… _never mind_.)

“I mean,” Camila continues, before you can even say anything, “This theatre is gorgeous. Don’t get me wrong. But I’ve got two weeks left and I guess I just want to make the most of my visit, you know? So…” Her eyes flick down to your lips, “… what else you got, Lauren?”

It’s 9 in the morning on a Sunday, but your stomach flips so hard that you instantly feel like you’re right back in the bar last night. There’s something in the glint of her eyes, something in the curl of her smile that almost makes you think she’s… that she might be…

She can’t be, though. She can’t mean it like that. Flirting is not something you do.

(That is, if you ignore all those moments during ballet class in which she holds your gaze for seconds too long, and the way you can’t stop yourself from brushing your hand over her hip when you correct her _arabesque_ , and, really, any conversation you’ve had since the moment she… but – it isn’t – that’s not… _never mind_.) 

“I don’t think my mother will really appreciate it if I step out of line again,” you mumble, a little too quickly, a little too nervously. You silently cringe at yourself for not coming up with something wittier.   

Camila grins and doesn’t waste a second. “Don’t you think I’d make it worth it?”

Your breathing quickens and your eyes lock right into hers, because _damn it_ , that is definitely—

“ _Lauren_!”

Your gaze snaps up at your mother’s abrupt outburst. A wave of nerves rushes through you when you catch her staring down at you from the stage, eyebrows raised, hand on her hip.

“Do you have a question for our guide?” She doesn’t even give you the time to shake your head, before biting out, “Then keep whatever it is you so desperately need to tell Camila this very second to yourself, before I decide to suspend both of you so you can continue your conversation privately on the way back home.”

If you weren’t already blushing, you are now.

Keaton shoots you a smug grin and you fight the urge to flip him off. 

After a short moment of distraction, the tour guide continues discussing the history of the building, and you let yourself fall back into your chair, trying to keep your eyes on the stage. You try to focus, but your thoughts keep drifting off.

Finally, after you’ve made sure your mother isn’t looking, you lean over to Camila, keeping your voice as low as you can when you breathe out, “I might have an idea. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

She gives you a look. “Did you not see me climb that bunker last week?”

“Good.” You smile. “Because it’s kind of dangerous and possibly illegal.”

There are goosebumps all over the skin of your neck when she leans further into you, her breath falling hot against your skin as she says with a teasing smile, “That’s kind of my thing.”

You almost burn right on the spot.

//

_Montserrat_ isn’t on the list in your phone because it’s not in Barcelona, but Camila doesn’t mind the hour train ride out of the city.

“It’s like you’re forgetting that I grew up in New York City,” she says with a smile when you’re trying to reassure her that it’s going to be worth it.

When you take off in a different direction after the excursion, no one really bothers to ask you why. Most of your classmates are too hungover and happy to have the rest of the Sunday afternoon to sleep it off before ballet classes start again tomorrow, to care much about what the two of you are doing. Only Keaton gives you a very obnoxious eyebrow wiggle, mumbling something that sounds a lot like “All right, Junior, I’ll let you have your date and entertain myself today”, but you choose to ignore that.  

There’s a happy sort of tension in the pit of your stomach that you can’t seem to get rid of, sparked by every glance Camila sends in your direction, every excited smile that curls around her lips as the train takes you further out of the crowds of the city and into the mountains. It’s a little less than an hour, but the shift in the surroundings almost makes it feel like you’re entering a different world all together.  

“Where are we going?” Camila says, again.

You smile, again. “I’m not going to tell you. You’ll see.”

She rolls her eyes, but the way she bites her lip back makes you think she doesn’t really mind to be surprised.

You’ve only been to _Montserrat_ one time before, together with your dad when you were about twelve years old. It’s one of those memories you will never forget, if not for the beauty of the mountain, then for the fact that there are only a couple of times you and your dad did something like that together, just the two of you. When you tell Camila about this, her gaze is so soft that it makes your heart flutter.

“What’s he like?” she says. “Your dad.”   

You shrug, not really knowing how to answer.

“Tell me,” she says, and you can’t ever really deny her anything, so you do.

You tell her about his heavy expressions and his strong business attitude. About his long days at the office and his phone calls and his meetings and his friends who only seem to be able to talk about stock markets. You tell him how he stopped coming to your performances after a couple of years, because “ _The Nutcracker_ is exactly the same every single time”. It stings a little when you say it, but then you tell her about the way he used to let you fall asleep against him on the couch after long days in the studio when you were younger. How he takes your brother to baseball games sometimes. How he searched all of Barcelona to find the perfect birthday cake for Taylor’s seventh birthday.

Camila smiles at that and says, “People are never just one thing.”

It curls right under your skin and you nod, because the sudden tightness in your throat prevents you from saying anything out loud.

You can’t believe how easy it is to talk to her. Can’t believe how much she gets it. How much you don’t want to stop.

Almost too quickly _Montserrat_ comes into view, and after that, all you can focus on is the way Camila’s eyes go wide, the way she softly gasps, because the mountain range is just so breathtakingly beautiful. 

“Is that where we’re going?” she says, voice spilling over with excitement.

You can’t stop your smile. “Tie your shoelaces. We’ve got a hike to make.”

//

The _Sant Jeroni_ monastery rises proud and tall above you as you and Camila hike your way up the paths to the highest points of the mountain. The Sunday afternoon sunlight makes everything glow. It’s quiet on the trail, since most people have chosen the aerial cable car to reach the abbey. You still feel exhausted from ballet and hungover from last night, and to anyone else it may seem far from perfect, but you can’t help but feel like it _is_.

“So, you’ve got a thing for pretty views, huh?” Camila says, when she stops walking abruptly to look back down to see how much distance you’ve already covered.

You’ve got to stop yourself before you crash right into her. A little breathless, you keep your eyes locked on hers, not turning around to admire the surroundings as you blurt out, “Yeah, sort of…”

It slips from your lips before you can bite it back and Camila blushes. She quickly tries to take a step backwards, but her foot slips on the sandy path and your hands fall to her hips at the same time that she reaches for your shoulder to steady herself.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your voice sounds throaty. You feel like you should move away. You feel like you should create as much space between your bodies as you can, but it’s like your muscles are locked, like you can’t even move—

Camila’s hand falls to your cheekbone and she softly brushes her fingers right over it, face inches from your own. Her touch causes a heavy shiver to run down the ridges of your spine.

“Sorry,” she says again, “You had – there was some dust on your cheek, so…”

Her fingers still against your jaw and you can feel it _everywhere_.

You swallow hard. “Camz…”

Her lips part and her eyes flick to yours. The second your gazes lock, she breaks away, though, turning around so quickly that she almost slips again. A throaty laugh escapes her as she hurries forward, further up the path.

“How much longer till we’re there?” she says. Her voice sounds airy and light, but there’s a hint of something you can’t quite place.

“Oh – uh,” you stammer. “Not that long.”

The rest of the way up to the monastery, your heart feels like it’s seconds away from bursting right out of your chest.

//

You spend almost an hour walking between the ancient architecture and market stalls that are selling local products, chatting lightly about all sorts of things and ignoring the fact that you were just seconds away from kissing Camila on a dusty hiking trail. Thankfully, the spiritual surroundings somehow calm your racing heart, and finally, you manage to find some of your confidence again.

“So,” you say. “You ready for the reason I brought you here?”

She grins at you. “The spectacular view of Catalonia wasn’t it?”  

“It was,” you tell her. “But there’s something even more spectacular.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she says, and the way the smiles when she says it makes your stomach flip all over again.

The second Camila catches sight of the Stairway to Heaven sculpture, she gasps. Actually, genuinely gasps. Her eyes go wide and she turns at you, “Oh my god, that is – Laur, wow.”

Pride curls under your skin. “I know.”

The heavy stones of the sculpture reach far up into the sky, stacked on top of each other to create a stairway that rises far above you.

As you expected, there’s a fence around it.

When you visited the place years ago, the fence wasn’t there, but with more and more people climbing the statue to take pictures, precaution has been taken. Lucy visited _Montserrat_ a year ago and already told you about the fence, so you’re not surprised. But… she also told you with a smirk that the fence is unguarded and not that hard to climb.

You can feel your heartrate speed up again when you glance at Camila. “You want to get closer?”

For a second she frowns, not understanding how you could possibly get any closer. But then the corner of her mouth curls up. It’s the end of the afternoon on a Sunday and there are barely any people around. 

“Lauren Jauregui…” she mumbles with a grin, and the way she uses your full name shoots right down to the base of your spine. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

You think of breaking into a theatre without tickets. You think of the swimming pool on the top floor of the expensive hotel. You try not to blush when you look at her as you say, “Didn’t you say being in places you’re not supposed to be is kind of your thing?”

She smiles at you in a way that makes you want to kiss it right off her face.

For a moment she glances around. The only people around are still at the other end of the monastery grounds, too far away to bother you. Camila pulls on your hand. “Let’s go. Before we get caught.”

Of all the things you could think ballet is good for, being able to climb a fence quickly and without much effort is not one of them – but before you know it, both you and Camila have made your way over the fence. When you stand in front of the first stone, you swallow hard for a second, because the sculpture really is much higher than you remembered. The first block alone already comes all the way up to your hip. Camila is way ahead of you, though, already pushing herself up so she can climb on top of it. With your pulse racing in your throat, you follow her, the adrenaline and endorphins pushing you forward.

When she’s at the fourth block from the top, Camila stops and sits down on the edge, legs swung over the side, turned in your direction. “Let’s make a picture. I want to remember this forever.”

The word _forever_ catches in the center of your chest, but you nod, already reaching for your phone.

When you move to take Camila’s picture, she laughs.

“No, come here – I want you in it, of course.”

You blush hard, but you let Camila pull you closer, until you’re standing right between her legs and she gestures for you to move around so you can take the picture with your arm outstretched in front of you. The angle is a little awkward and your heart is beating so quickly that you’re surprised you can even find the composure to keep your arm steady, but when you catch sight of yourself on the screen – both of you flushed, hair wild, glinting eyes – you want to capture this moment exactly as it is, nerves and all.

You take the picture.

Camila shifts even closer into you, pressing against you as she mumbles, “Another one.”

Her voice is hot against your bare shoulder and you feel like you can’t breathe. The second you press your finger to the screen to take another one, Camila’s mouth brushes against the skin of your neck in the quickest kiss, and you almost drop your phone 

“Sorry,” she breathes out. “You just – you smell so good.”

Her voice is rough against your ear and your body moves completely of its own accord, spinning around so quickly that both of you gasp at the sudden movement. There’s only a second in which you realize you’re pressed to the stone, right between her legs, her body burning against yours. Then, your hand falls down and you let go of your phone, fingers pulling on her shorts to inch her closer instead—

—and you can’t stop yourself anymore.

Camila’s mouth is hot and slick and hungry on yours.

With her hands fisted into your shirt, she arches forward and pulls you closer, and you kiss her like you never stopped doing it, letting her set your body on fire with every passing second. She grinds her hips right into yours and you moan into the touch, all the things you’ve thought about and needed and _wanted_ bursting right through your inhibitions. One of her hands curls in the hair at the nape of your neck, and you angle your face to get even closer, your tongue needing to taste her _more_ , to have her _more_ —

“Jesus,” she breathes out, breaking away for a second to catch her breath. “Laur – I…”

You don’t want to talk. Not yet

Before she can get another word out, you press your lips back against hers. The way she trembles against you when you pull her closer pulses heat through your entire body. Your hands fall to her back, inching her closer. Her leg hooks around your body, gladly pulling you into her. The shifted angle of her hips makes you dizzy with want, with need, with—

Your heart is beating so fast that you feel like you’re falling apart against her.

An instant rush of embarrassment falls over you at how much this is affecting you and you break away abruptly, shocked by the intensity. Camila’s lips are red and wet and swollen. Her pupils are blown wide.

“Lauren…” she says then, the word nothing more than a whisper against your mouth.

Her fingers fall to your cheek, stroking over your jaw, and then she pulls you in and kisses you again, slower, softer. Your body melts into hers, the press of her lips so sweet and hot and _good_. When you break away after a couple more moments, you feel dizzy.

Camila smiles at you, shy and blushing under your gaze.

Your chest is heaving up and down with deep breaths, aching for oxygen you so desperately need.

Camila brushes her fingers through your hair, never taking her eyes off yours. You can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop yourself from blurting out, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

She blushes even harder and hums against your lips, eyes fluttering closed as she leans her forehead against yours. There’s so much you want to say to her. So, so much. You don’t even know where to start.

“So,” she whispers, before you can start. “That just happened.”

You can feel the corners of your mouth twitch. “Yeah…”

She brushes her lips against yours again, kissing your quickly and softly. It sends another shockwave through your body.

Then, she says, “Should we – I mean – do you… Should we let just… let it happen?”

You’re not exactly sure what she’s asking you. You can’t think about anything, but you can’t shake the burning feeling inside of your chest that is pushing you forward into an answer. You can feel your lips part, your breath mingling with hers. Your eyes lock and the _yes_ almost falls right off your lips—

There’s an eruption of noise and the moment is snapped.

When you turn away, you can see a large group kids making their way into the direction of the sculpture.

“Fuck – I think we should get out of here,” you say.

Camila nods, and just like that, the tension has been broken.

//

You don’t talk about it, but something has shifted. The train ride back to the city is nothing but shy glances and feeling flustered and trying to pretend that nothing has changed – but it has.

A lot has changed.

//

Your mother’s punishment for what happened in the bar on Saturday night is ballet, ballet and more ballet. The training schedule of the next week is brutal and your teachers are stricter and more corrective than ever before. You barely get a second of free time, let alone a moment to think about what happened between you and Camila. You wake before the crack of dawn every day, and you’re only let out of the studios again when it’s already night again and you’re exhausted enough to fall into a dreamless sleep until your alarm goes off and it starts all over again.

Before you know it, the week has passed and Lucy invites you to Vero’s birthday party.

//

You haven’t seen Vero in two years, so the invitation is a bit of a shock.

“I didn’t know you were still talking to her,” you tell Lucy, trying to keep the bite out of your voice.

You know it’s not really fair, because Lucy doesn’t even know half of what went down between you and Vero, but you’re not about to let her in on it now – not when the memories still make you sick to your stomach with panic.

Lucy shrugs. “We just hang out sometimes. It’s no big deal.” She nudges your shoulder. “Come on, Lo. She’ll be so happy to see you. She’s been asking about you a lot.”

You purse your lips, trying to stop yourself from thinking about it. Trying to stop yourself from getting caught up in the rush of tension you feel when your mind flashes to Vero and school and whispered secrets and the chants in the hallway after you—

“You should bring Camila.”

At the mention of Camila’s name your gaze shoots up. _Like hell you’re bringing Camila along to Vero’s birthday party_.

“And—” Lucy adds, suddenly looking down. “And… and maybe you could also tell Keaton? I don’t… I don’t know. That would be – well – yeah.”

The faint blush on her cheekbones makes your lips twitch. She’s not meeting your eyes, but you can’t help but say, “You want me to invite your boyfriend?”

At that, she glares at you. “Oh, shut up. You’re one to talk.”

The image of Camila right on top of the Stairway to Heaven sculpture flashes in front of your eyes, completely out of breath and looking at you so softly, her lips all red and swollen from—

You haven’t told Lucy, yet.

You’ve barely even though about it.

(That’s a lie.)

“Ok,” you hear yourself say. Somehow the thought of doing something together with Camila outside of ballet class, even if it is a stupid beach party organized by Vero, is enough to push you over the edge. “Ok, we’ll go to Vero’s party. I’ll let Keaton now.”

“And Camila.”

You roll your eyes, fighting your blush. “Ok, Luce – and Camila.”

//

Vero’s parents live right on the beach and her birthday is exactly like you expected it to be – loud music, people you don’t know or haven’t seen in years being obnoxious, barbecue spices in the air, mixed with the salt of the sea, and alcohol, alcohol, alcohol.

When she sees you, Vero screams.

Her smile is so wide and her eyes sparkle and for a second there’s a harsh sting in the center of your chest at the fact that you’re no longer friends with her, but when she hugs you like nothing has happened, like it’s the most _normal_ thing for her to be hugging you, the sting of regret quickly shifts into something else entirely.

“Are these your friends from New York?” she asks, eyeing Camila and Keaton.

You force a smile. “Yes, this is Camila.” For half a second, you feel like bringing your hand to the small of Camila’s back, but then you remember that this is _Vero_ and before you can do anything stupid, you quickly add, “And this is Keaton. We go to Fonteyn together.”

Vero takes Keaton in with a look that can only be interpreted in one way. “A ballet boy,” she says, batting her eyelashes and smiling sweetly. “I can see it pays off.”

Beside you, Keaton grins sheepishly while Lucy rolls her eyes and coughs, grabbing your wrist and pushing past Vero to drag you into the kitchen.

“I need a drink,” she says. “What about you?”

You glance back, feeling your eyes narrow as you watch Vero talk to Camila. As if she can feel your gaze on her, Vero turns to you and winks. You’re not sure how to interpret it, but your throat feels dry.

Maybe this was a really, really bad idea.

Your eyes lock into Lucy’s. “A drink sounds good. Or five.”

//

You’re on that fifth drink when Vero yells that she wants to play truth or dare.

For a second you catch Lucy’s gaze, and it’s just too damn typical. You both know exactly what happened the last time Vero made you play truth or dare, so you try to pretend you didn’t hear her calling out.

Minutes later, though, you’re leaning against the kitchen counter top talking to Keaton, and Vero screams, “Lauren, truth or dare.”

You stare at her.

Your thoughts are not as clear as they were an hour ago. The exhaustion from the heavy week of ballet classes must be quickening your intake of alcohol, because you can feel it in your entire body. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can remember trying to convince yourself not to drink too much – your mother’s words of last week still echoing in your head to let you know you’re supposed to behave professionally. But the combined tension of being so close to Camila while you’re back in Vero’s house with Lucy like the last two years haven’t even happened, has clouded your judgement.

It’s summer. You’ll play.

“Truth,” you tell her.

Vero grins. She doesn’t miss a beat and says, “Who’s your best friend?”

It hits you right in the center of your chest.

To anyone else, it may seem like the most innocent question. You can see one of Vero’s cousins chuckle and roll his eyes, because this is clearly not the kind of question he wants to hear an answer to. Vero just smiles like she’s simply being nice – but you know better. There’s something piercing in her eyes, and you only have to glance at Lucy once to know that she feels it too. There’s an undercurrent in Vero’s voice; something old and bitter, and you know exactly what she’s referring to.

Still, you force yourself to look her in the eyes when you say, “Lucy.”

Lucy lets out an airy laugh, trying to shrug it off as she wraps her arm around your shoulder and presses a sloppy, tipsy kiss to your cheek. “Thanks, babe. Right back at you.”

To turn Vero’s attention away from you as quickly as possible, you say, “Keaton, truth or dare?”

“Oh,” Keaton says. “Dare.”

You can’t think of anything funny, so you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, which is, “Do as many _fouéttes en tournant_ as you can.”

Keaton rolls his eyes. “Ok, Sergeant Jauregui.”

You don’t really pay attention to the rest of the game. While people you don’t know give answers to questions you don’t care about, your thoughts keep getting caught on Vero’s expression. There is so much tension in your body that you feel nauseous. You can’t stop thinking about everything that happened between you, no matter how hard you try. You can’t look at Vero without thinking about it. You can’t look at Lucy without thinking about it. You can’t even look at Camila without being reminded of the way you’re—

“Camila.” Vero’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Truth or dare?”

Camila smiles and you know the answer before she’s said it.

“Dare.”

Vero’s eyes light up. She squints a little, as if she’s thinking about it. Then, the corner of her mouth curls upwards and she says, “I dare you to kiss…” Your stomach drops in less than a second and Vero looks right into your eyes when she says, “…Lucy.”

Something sharp slices through the core of your chest.

_What_ —

Camila lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “A kissing dare. So very original.”

Your pulse is racing in your throat and you can feel yourself burning up from the inside. No one is paying attention to you besides Vero, and it’s just— it’s not—

_Fuck._

Camila glances over at Lucy, who is leaning back against the table right across from you, something of a smile around her lips. Camila grins and bites her lip back when Lucy wiggles her eyebrows at her – like it’s no big deal. Like you’re not right _fucking_ here.  

You close your eyes and bring your glass to your mouth, the vodka burning down your throat as you down all of it at once. When you open your eyes again, Camila has jumped off the kitchen counter and made her way over so that she’s standing right in front of Lucy.

_It’s just a game. It’s just a game._

You spin around, making a move for the bottle of vodka, because you need another drink. Because this is just, this is absolutely—

The very moment you turn back around, Camila leans in and kisses Lucy. One second, two seconds—

You accidentally drop the bottle of vodka and they break away immediately.  

“Lauren.” Vero’s voice is sharp. “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” you stammer. “Fuck – sorry about that. I’ll just—”

You reach forward, grabbing at the shards of glass with your hands, blood spilling from your fingers abruptly as you slice them open.

“Junior.” Keaton is right next to you. “Hey, Lo – let me do that. Maybe you should—”

The room is spinning. You stumble backwards. “I need some air.”

You’re out of the house and onto the beach before anyone can stop you.

//

Keaton finds you ten minutes later, sitting in the sand, watching as the waves crash onto the coast. You’re still shaking. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, startling you a little bit. But then he says “What’s going on?” and something snaps inside of you.

“I kissed Camila,” you choke out. “I kissed Camila and I had sex with Lucy and two years ago, _Vero—_ ” Your throat closes off and you have to gasp for air. “Everyone found out and I can’t – you don’t understand. And now they just kissed, right in front of me, even though last week— and Vero _knew_ and she told – she told everyone and—”

“Hey.” Keaton grabs your wrists. “Hey, slow down… Slow down…”

Your chest is heaving up and down with shaky breaths. Tears are burning in your eyes. You take another breath, and then another. Until your thoughts aren’t as jumbled together. Until you’re able to look Keaton in his eyes.

“Lauren,” he says, when you’ve finally calmed down a little. “What happened?”

You don’t want to tell him. You didn’t plan on telling him. You planned on _never, ever_ telling anyone in the entire world, but Keaton is looking at you without any judgement in his eyes and he’s one of the nicest people you have ever met and—

“I was in love with Lucy,” you breathe out, and you’ve never said that sentence out loud, you’ve barely even _thought_ it, but it’s the truth and Keaton listens.

“Vero and I were always with the two of us,” you tell him. “We were really, really close, and I didn’t think anything could change that. But then, when I was thirteen, Lucy moved to Barcelona and we had biology together – and she was just so. She was so…” You can barely say it, so you breathe out, “Well, you’ve met her…” and Keaton laughs a little.

He nods.

“We became friends really quickly,” you say. “First, with the three of us. Vero and Lucy and I. But I just – I couldn’t concentrate on anything and I kept thinking about her and I only wanted to be with the two of us. Without Vero. But then, I turned fourteen and Vero dared me to—” Your breath catches. “Dared me to kiss Lucy—”

The memory pulses through you. Lucy’s eyes. Her smile. Her lips so soft and warm. The taste of your favorite raspberry lemonade lingering on the corner of her mouth.

“—and then,” you mumble, “—after that, we couldn’t stop. It just kept happening. I kept wanting to kiss and we did and more things happened and then we had sex and I just – I didn’t have a fucking clue of what was happening to me.” Your eyes lock into his. “So, I told Vero. I told Vero that we had slept together, because I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore – and Vero was my best friend and—”

The tears work their way up your throat.

“She told everyone.”

Keaton swallows hard.

Your voice waves as you breathe out, again, “She told everyone. It was right before I went to New York. Last week of school and everyone kept whispering it. I didn’t even know what I was feeling, but everyone kept calling me a—”

You close your eyes. You want to stop talking. You don’t want to say another word, because you’ve already said _so much_. You’ve already admitted to so _fucking_ much, and you can’t handle the look in Keaton’s eyes, but it’s like you can’t stop anymore.

“Lucy wasn’t there that week, because she had a fever,” you tell him. “So, she didn’t – she wasn’t there. But Vero – she just laughed and she said it was my own fault and she said it was the truth, and I didn’t know what to do, so I went home and told Lucy that she…” Your voice cracks. “I told Lucy it didn’t mean anything because I just wanted to _stop feeling it_ —”

There are hot, wet teardrops dripping down your jaw. “ _God_ – and now everything is so fucked up, because last week, we kissed.” Keaton’s eyes go wide and you quickly blurt out, “Camila. I mean, Camila. We kissed and it was so… I wanted it so much – but now…”

You finally collapse, not able to keep talking any longer. Keaton pulls you closer to him. He’s silent for a moment and then he says, “And now you’re at Vero’s house and just you had to watch Camila kiss Lucy, because Vero wanted you to…”

You nod, falling into his shoulder.

“Jesus, Lo…” he mumbles. “It _is_ fucked up.”

This is what you love about Keaton. You realize it with an abrupt sort of shock, because it pulses right through you, right through the mess that is everything else. He never makes you feel like your feelings are anything but validated – and you love him for it.

You sit in silence for the longest time. Then, Keaton brings your fingers up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the fresh cuts as if can somehow ease the pain inside your chest. Another shock rushes through as you realize it kind of does a little.

“You know,” he says then. “I think you need to know a couple of things. I need you to believe these things, ok?”

He doesn’t let go of your fingers. His eyes glint a little in the darkness when he says, “First of all, Lucy cares more about you than anyone else. This is something you should never forget. She cares about you and she wants you to be ok and I think you should tell her the truth about what happened, because she deserves to know.” You let out a shaky breath, but Keaton is not done. “Second of all, everyone can see how much Camila is into you, Lo. Honestly, I’m surprised your mother hasn’t separated the two of you months ago already. The tension is extremely distracting. For all of us.”

He grins a little at your shocked expression, but then his face turns serious again. “That kiss that just happened was part of a game, ok? Nothing else. It’s fucked up, yes, but I promise you it was just part of the game.”

You bite your lip hard, not really wanting to think about it. You kind of want to change the subject, but before you can say anything, Keaton looks you right in the eyes, and says, “And, Lo – this is the important thing. This is the thing you need to believe the most.” He takes a breath and then says, “You can love whoever the fuck you want to love. You can kiss whoever the fuck you want to kiss, and _no one_ , not even someone you’re very close with, not even someone like Vero, not even your best friend, is allowed to make you feel like you can’t.”

Everything you wanted to say dies in your throat. You can only look at him and feel it burning in the center of your chest.

“I love you,” you breathe out.

Keaton laughs and says, “Well, get in line.”

—and just like that, you laugh out loud, and Keaton is back to being your ridiculous idiot of a friend and ballet partner; always leading you, always knowing the next step, always lifting you up when you’re down.

//

Something has shifted, once again.

You can’t really look at Camila during the next week. What happened at Vero’s birthday party is so fresh in your memory that it only confuses you any time you catch sight of her.

After your conversation on the beach, you made Keaton swear that he wouldn’t tell Lucy or Camila anything about it, because you’re not ready to face everything at once. But as a result, everything is mostly confusing and awkward and uncertain – and none of you really seem to know how to deal with it. Ballet is a nice point of focus, but with Camila leaving Saturday night to go back to New York, there are other things on your mind.

On Friday evening, she knocks on your hotel room door.

You’re already dressed for bed in very short shorts and a baggy sweatshirt, your hair still wet and curly from the shower. When you hear the knock on your door, you think it’s your mother, so you don’t mind, but the second you open the door and Camila is standing on the other side, you regret opening the door.

“Hi,” she says, “Can I come in?”

You nod, before you’ve thought about it. She follows you into the room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, a good distance between the two of you.

She doesn’t say anything, so after a tense moment of silence, you blurt out, “Are you ok?”

She nods. “Yes, are you?”

“Of course,” you say a little too quickly.

Camila narrows her eyes. She looks down at her lap and seems to contemplate something. You’re about to ask her if she’s excited to go back to New York, just to make conversation, when she suddenly blurts out, “Are you mad at me?”

Your eyes go wide. “W-what?”

Camila’s exhale is a little sharp. “I don’t know. It just – things seem a little… off. Ever since the party, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe you’re mad, because I…”

Heat flushes your cheeks. “Oh.”

The silence stretches and tenses.

“Are you?” Camila says then.

“No, Camz—” She looks up. “I’m not mad at you.”

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry I kissed Lucy. I didn’t really – I didn’t really think about it. It was just part of the game and I was a little tipsy and… Only when you left, it suddenly hit me that maybe…” She trails off, before looking down again and mumbling, “Anyway – maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, but I was actually hoping Vero would dare me to kiss you.”

Her words burn under your skin. You’re blushing so hard that you can barely keep your eyes on her.

“Really?”

She must have heard the vulnerability in your voice, because she forces herself to look up at you again as she says, “Yes – Lauren, of course I wanted it to be you.”

You bite your lip, feeling like the temperature in the room has been raised with a thousand degrees in a matter of seconds.

“Do you want to spend the day with me tomorrow?”

The words have left your mouth before you can stop yourself.

Camila’s eyes widen a little, but then she smiles. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Yeah – it’s your last day here. I still have to show you my favorite place in the entire city. Like, properly show you.”    

Her gaze softens. “Best for last.”

“Yes.” You can’t help but smile.

“Ok,” Camila says. “I’d love to.”

The moment stretches, both of you just looking at each other. Then, Camila stands up again, running a quick hand through her hair. “I’ll go to bed, then. It looks like you were about to go to.”

Another rush of heat pulses through your body as her gaze lingers on your legs, but you nod.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.

Your heartbeat quickens. “See you tomorrow.”

When the door falls closed behind her, you can’t help but think of Keaton’s words from the beach. _You can love whoever the fuck you want to love. You can kiss whoever the fuck you want to kiss_. With a shaky breath you fall back into bed, closing your eyes, thinking that maybe tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

//

She’s wearing a dress that makes your throat go dry.

You can’t stop staring at her legs, at her tan, soft skin and at the summer freckles on her cheekbones. It’s like you’re realizing all over again how _good_ she looks, right here in your city, hair made messy by the wind, eyes sparkling.

It’s the perfect day; the sunlight is bright but not too heavy, the streets are not even half as crowded as they could have been. You don’t know how it’s possible, but you can’t stop yourself from thinking that maybe Barcelona somehow feels how much you need the day to be like this.

You buy pastries at your favorite bakery and eat them for breakfast in the harbor, at the bottom of the steps near the _Nova Duana_.

“Are you excited for third year?” Camila asks you, wiggling her bare feet in the water.

You nod. “Definitely. It’s going to be intense, if I should believe my mother. But apparently we’ll also get a lot more freedom to create our own pieces. You know, pick electives and choreograph and stuff like that.”

Camila smile at you. “You’ll be top of the class.”

It makes you blush, but you try to play it cool, kinking your eyebrow at her as you say, “Aren’t I always?”

She laughs and pushes your shoulder. “Please – you wouldn’t even have _passed_ first and second year contemporary if it wasn’t for me.”

It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but she’s not entirely wrong.

You grin at her, meeting her eyes. “I know.”

At that, Camila gives you something of a bashful smile that you immediately want to see again, so before you can stop yourself you breathe out, “I’ll miss you next month.”

_Oh, God._

Camila’s eyes go wide, and you quickly add, “In contemporary class, I mean. You know, with no one to copy from.”

If the smile around Camila’s lips is any sort of indication, she knows exactly what you meant the first time around, though.

//

_Parc de la Ciutadella_ is next. After walking around for a while, you end up sitting right in front of the fountain.

“You know,” you tell Camila when you’ve finally gathered the courage. “We should take another picture. It’s kind of a nice fountain, don’t you think?”

Her eyes lock into yours and it’s clear as hell that she’s also thinking about what happened the last time you took a picture together. Still, she pulls her phone out of the pocket of her shorts. “Come here.”

You shift closer to her, but before Camila can hold her phone out in front of her, a Spanish lady approaches you and asks if you’d like her to take the picture instead. You can feel yourself getting flustered right away, but the lady just smiles and rambles that you look so beautiful together, which makes you feel even _more_ flustered, but before you can stop her, Camila has handed her phone to the woman.

“ _Moure més a prop junts_ ,” the lady orders, then.

Move closer together.

_Oh, God._

Camila wraps her arm around you immediately. Your eyes catch on her wide smile and you feel yourself blush even more, right when the lady snaps the picture and hands Camila’s phone back. You’ve barely thanked her, when she waves you off and disappears again. It’s not until your attention shifts back to Camila again that your stomach flips. Her left arm is still sort of curled around you but she’s looking down at her phone with a soft smile. Your gaze falls to the screen and you almost gasp, because there you are – in front of the fountain, Camila looking right into the camera, smiling, and you, distracted, looking at her instead, blush on your cheeks and—

_Oh my God._

You shift away from her, feeling your heart race against your ribs. Camila’s hand catches on your hip before you can completely move away, though.

“Don’t,” she mumbles, almost like she can’t stop herself. “I like being here with you.”    

“Ok,” you mumble, trying not to sound as soft as you feel inside. “We can stay for as long as we want.”  

When Camila smiles at you, you think that maybe it is worth blushing in public for.

//

It’s not until you’re already in the _Carrer del Bisbe_ that Camila finally seems to catch on.

“Wait,” she says, “This is close to the café. The chai place.”

“Yes,” you tell her. “It is.”

Her eyes light up. “Are we going there again?”

You shake your head, fighting your smile when she almost pouts. “No.”

The second she catches sight of the neo-Gothic bridge at the end of the street, she seems to remember. “Wait,” she says, “ _This_ is it. This street. You told me. This is your favorite street in the entire city.”

She turns around to face you and you have to bite back your smile, because she looks so absolutely amazing, in her dress, right in the most beautiful place in all of Barcelona. Once again, the city seems to be on your side, because there are barely any other people around, even though it’s one of the most popular places.

“So,” Camila says with a smile, “This where you take all the girls you want to impress, then?”

As soon as she’s said it, she seems to realize the implication, because her eyes go wide and she backs away a little, as if she’s expecting you will panic at her use of the word _girls_ , as if you will explode right there and then. 

“Sorry—” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to assume that you’re… I mean – it was just a joke. I didn’t mean you’re…”

Your breathing is quick and you feel your fingers clench in anticipation and you’re waiting for it, too. You’re waiting for the moment you will feel your anxiety rush over you like it always does, any time anyone suggests that you’re—

It doesn’t happen.

The panic doesn’t come.

You feel happy and light and high on the summer and the sight of her right in front of you, in your favorite street, and you don’t know where you find the courage but you lock your eyes with hers and breathe out with half a smile, “Only the pretty ones.”

Her lips part, and then she gives you _that_ smile.

Your knees almost give in.

She comes to a halt right under the bridge and you thought about it the last time you were here, and you’re thinking about it now – about what it would be like to just ignore the fact that you’re in public and push her right back against—

“You already showed me this, though,” Camila says, “You said you’d show me your favorite place, but you already showed me two weeks ago.”

Her smile is addictive.

You take a step closer, glancing around for just a moment. There’s an approaching family at the end of the street, but apart from that…

“I said I’d _properly_ show you my favorite place,” you breathe out, stepping forward until you’re right in front of her.

Camila’s gaze darkens. “And what does _properly_ —”

You kiss her.

It’s nothing like last time. Soft but insistent, sweet but pressing – and you can feel yourself _fall_ into it, _fall_ right into wanting nothing else than being close to her, not even caring that it’s the middle of the day. Not even caring that anyone could see. Your fingers reach up to Camila’s neck and her hands come to your hips and then her mouth opens against yours and she stumbles, until her back hits the wall and you press yourself against her, deepening the kiss.

If this is what falling feels like—

Camila breaks away. Her gaze is hazy when she whispers against your lips, “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

—and, _yes,_ if this is what it feels like, you don’t ever want it to stop.  

//

You’re feeling braver than you’ve felt in months – even if your hands are shaking a little when you pull the zipper of Camila’s dress down, watching the sunlight through the windows of your hotel room spill over her skin. Her fingers are fast on the buttons of your shirt, slipping it off your shoulders in the same moment her dress falls to the floor. You gasp as she presses her mouth against your neck, licking and sucking her way from your collarbone up to the corner of your jaw, distracting you while she makes quick work of your shorts as well. As soon as she’s unfastened them, she pushes them down your legs, and then you’re both in nothing more than your underwear, breathless and heated and brave and _alive_.

She takes half a step away from you and runs her gaze up and down your body. You’re trembling at the heat in her eyes.

“Laur,” she mumbles, “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

_God._

With one quick movement you pull on her wrist, until she’s back against your body. You kiss her hard; kiss her with your mouth, your hands, your fingers, with everything you got – only breaking away when you’ve got her on her back on the mattress, panting underneath you, hips already bucking up against yours.

“Can I?” she whispers as her fingers hook around the clasp of your bra.

You nod. “Yes – _please_.”

There’s an edge of desperation to your voice that you couldn’t stop if you tried. Camila kisses you before you can feel embarrassed about it. Her fingers click your bra open and then you’re burning right on top of her, shivering against her skin, even though you’re right in the sunlight, right in the middle of the day. Camila shifts until she’s leaning back against the pillows, pulling on your hips until you’re in her lap, licking your way back into her mouth.

“Mine too,” she pants against your lips and you don’t hesitate for even a second when you hook your hands behind her back and take her bra off.

Her mouth finds your neck again and you moan into it, accidentally grinding down roughly on her thigh. Camila’s breath hitches and then her hands move up from your stomach, over your ribs until she’s cupping your breasts and everything leaves your mind except for the feeling of her hands _touching you_. You grind down harder and Camila groans.

“Laur—”

“What?” You sound so breathless.

With a sharp inhale, your mouth falls down to her neck and you lick her hard over her pulse point. Camila moans and your nipples strain even more against her palms.

“You can’t – if you do that – you’re making me so…” She gasps. “… so fucking _wet_.”

You swear out loud, the sound of her voice like that – so breathy and needy – only making you buck against her harder. Her hands tangle in your hair as you lean forward and start kissing your way down her body, from her neck to her breasts, cupping them with your hands and licking right over her nipples until her moans get increasingly louder and her body is trembling with tension.

“Lauren – I – I need…”

You kiss her right above her hipbone as her fingers curl in the hair at the nape of your neck.

“What do you need?” you breathe out.

Camila groans. “You fucking know what.”

Every kiss you press into her skin causes goosebumps. You hook your fingers under the hem of her panties and you pull them down slowly, until she gets impatient and kicks them off.

“ _Camila_ …” you mumble.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she swears as you lick the inside of her thighs. “You’re so – God,” she moans when you inch higher and then she breathes out, “I need you. I want you. Fuck – I need you all over me and I want you inside of me and—”

She gasps abruptly as your lips come into contact with her heated center, and the moan that falls from her lips when you softly taste her is all you want to hear for the rest of your life. Your heart is beating itself right out of your chest. You’re trembling with how much you want it. You’re trembling and there’s no space for anything but how good she tastes and how _turned on_ she is against your mouth and how you never want to stop making her feel like this—

She whimpers and curls her hands in your hair and she is breathless and beautiful and _yours_ with every stroke of your tongue, with every flick of your fingers.

She’s not, but she is.

“ _Lauren_.”

Her name falls from your lips until she clenches hard around your fingers and you touch her with all the feelings burning inside of your body, touch her until she shakes and trembles and _comes_ —

She’s panting heavily, her body falling into you with uncontrollable movements, and then she breathes out, “Come here.”

You kiss your way back up her body and she wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you into her and you can’t quite believe that it is real. She kisses your lips and rolls you over until she’s on top of you, pressed against you, naked and wanting and without any sort of hesitation. When she breaks away from the kiss, she softly strokes her fingers through your hair, looking you right in your eyes while her other hand ghosts down the length of your body—

“Are you sure?” she says then, and your eyes shoot open because for a second she sounds a little insecure and it hits you harder than you expected, because the last time you did this, you left in the middle of the night, you left to go—

_You can love whoever the fuck you want to love. You can kiss whoever the fuck you want to kiss_.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “I want to. Camz, I – _please._ I want you so much and I know I fucked up last time, but now, I’m so – I like you so much and I’m so ready and _I want you_ and—”

She kisses you, fingers stroking right inside your panties—   

—and then you can’t say anything besides _yes, god, please, yes, there_ in fragmented breaths. You kiss the words into Camila’s mouth with your tongue and you don’t ever want this to end.

You don’t ever want any of this to end.

//

Afterwards, you’re naked and sticky, and she looks up at you, her long, dark hair spilled over your white pillows, eyes so soft and beautiful.

Then, she breathes out, “When we’re back in New York in September, do you maybe want to go out with me some time?”

Your breath catches in your throat. She’s got you tingling all over and the first thing you feel when she says it _yes yes yes please yes_ , but the second thing you feel is something achingly close to panic.

It’s like she reads it in your eyes, because she says, “Wait – sorry.”

That makes it even worse.

“No…” you breathe out, stroking a loose curl behind her ear. “No, Camz, don’t say sorry.”

She swallows hard and it’s back – the insecurity. The thing you did with Brad. It’s back, because you didn’t say yes and you didn’t say no, but she could see it in your eyes, and now she’s already flicking her gaze down, away from you, away from—

“I don’t think I—” you breathe out, forcing yourself to explain. “I’m not – I want to, but I’m not – ready. For… for _that_.” 

For a second, it’s the worst thing. For a second, it hurts _so much_ to be this honest, but your exhale soothes the words and the way Camila’s gaze shifts back up at you with something like understanding loosens some of the tension in your chest.

Camila nods. “Ok.”

Your breath is heavy with something you don’t understand yet. “Ok.”    

//

(An hour later, she leaves you with a smile and a kiss that has you dizzy in a matter of seconds, and right when she’s out of sight you think _what the fuck are you doing of course you’ll go out with her when you’re back in New York what the fuck are you doing_ – but she’s already gone and you’ll just have to ask her yourself when you get back from summer school next month.)

(She leaves and it feels like you’re forgetting something important; the very foundation of partnering, the golden rule you should never neglect.)

(If you don’t reach far enough, you might just slip and miss.)  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hi guys :)  
> How was that? Let me know what you thought!  
> Next chapter I'll try to get back to the original structure again. We'll see how well that works out haha.  
> I hope you all have a very great day wherever you are in the world!  
> -Blake


	9. the third year | august - september

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I'm back. Sorry for being gone for so long. Please consider this a late Christmas gift.  
> I love you. 
> 
> -Blake

The London Royal Opera House simmers with the force of the performance, minute after minute after minute. It's one of the things you love most about ballet; the stage lights pushing back against the darkness of the theater; the twists and turns and currents of the choreography - and _her,_ dancing it, flooding your chest with fire, making you feel it everywhere.

:::

**august**

:::

The summer shifts to August and suddenly you're stuck in Barcelona being Keaton and Lucy's third wheel.

You hadn't realized it - too focused on dark brown eyes and teasing smiles and _Camila Camila Camila_ to really pay attention to anything else - but apparently your two best friends have been spending a lot more time together than you were aware of. Which is why you're currently feeling wildly out of place and sort of uninvited as you watch Keaton try to push Lucy into the waves at Playa de la Barceloneta.

He's clearly trying to show off; picking her up over his shoulder and throwing her back into the water at every chance he gets. Lucy is screaming bloody murder, holding onto his biceps for dear life, and Keaton just laughs, his hands too low on her hips for it to be platonic - and you're just standing there, a safe distance away, and wondering when all of _this_ happened.

(If you think about it, probably happened right around the time you busy kissing Camila in the _Carrel del Bisbe..._ but you don't want to get lost in any details.)

"Lo," Lucy shrieks, not even pretending to look in your direction. "Help me!"

She jumps forward and wraps her legs around Keaton's hips in a very poor attempt to push him backwards into the waves, and you decide that you'd really rather not get any closer. Clearing your throat, you watch them for another uncomfortable moment, before you can't handle it anymore. "I'm just going to... uh - go back."

Neither of them even hear you.

After you've dried yourself off, you drop down onto the sand and take your phone out of the pocket of your shorts to check the time. It's barely even ten a.m., which means it's still the middle of the night in New York. You lean back onto your towel and slowly exhale as you stare at your screen.

_No messages._

It's been nearly three weeks and she hasn't messaged you. You don't know what to think about it.

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment. For days, there's been a whirlwind of feelings spinning in your chest, but you can't even structure your thoughts, let alone text them to her in coherent sentences. Besides, if she really wanted to be talking to you, she would be, right? The thought bites hard at your ego.

"Oh, God."

Lucy drops down next to you, splashing drops of water on your skin and sighing more dramatically than necessary. "Just call her already if you miss her so much."

You clench your phone a little tighter in your hands, not meeting her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on." She grabs a towel and wraps it around her shoulders. "I thought we were past this. If you want to talk to her, just talk to her. It's not rocket science."

"But-"

"Yeah, I know," she says, cutting you off. "The time difference, ballet class, oceans between you, all the forces in the universe working against you..." She furrows her brow in mock contemplation. "If only you would have some sort of electronic device that would actually allow you to communicate with the people you would like to communicate with, no matter the distance or the time... Oh, wait-" Her eyes go wide. "You do! It's called your damn phone." 

You scoff. "You're not helping."

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. " _You_ are not helping. You act like this is the most impossible thing in the whole world, but it's not. After everything that happened last month, there's no way she doesn't want you to call her."

You can feel yourself pout even you're trying really hard not to be petty about it. "Well, why isn't _she_ calling me?"

It still sounds petty.

Lucy gives you a long, hard look, and then says, "God, you're impossible. Why isn't she calling you - who knows? Probably because you're a childish idiot who can't ever admit to having feelings of any sort."

Your eyes go wide. "Lucy-"

"Ok," she says. "Sorry. But seriously, Lo, here's a crazy concept: how about you start telling the people you like that you like them instead of waiting around for everyone to see through your layers and layers of self-protection? If you just wait around for things to happen, nothing is ever going to."

You stare at the screen of your phone, stomach flipping hard at the idea. You've got half the mind to tell Lucy that you don't _like_ Camila in any way, but you know she'll just throw it back in your face. And if you're being honest, you don't really have a proper counter argument. All you can do is deflect. "You're one to talk..."

Lucy's face shifts into genuine confusion. "What?"

"Here's a crazy concept." You tilt your chin up and nod in the direction of the ocean where Keaton is still diving into the waves. "How about you start telling the people you like that you like them?"

"What? You mean... you mean _Keaton_?" Lucy's voice cracks on the last syllable of his name and you can't stop your laugh because this is just ridiculous. Her blush only deepens. "I don't even like Keaton!"

"Yeah, the fact that you couldn't keep your hands to yourself in the ocean really supports that theory..."

She scowls at you. "Ok, first of all, I'm perfectly capable of keeping my hands to myself. And second of all, Lauren, this is so rich coming from _you_."

You want to respond with something witty, but you can't because you're not able to stop laughing. It takes a second, but then Lucy's expression shifts and she starts laughing too, scooting a bit closer to you.

"God," she mumbles with a smile, running a hand through her wet hair. "What is happening to us? We used to be so good at the whole no-feelings thing." 

It's meant to be a joke, but the moment your eyes lock onto hers your breath catches in the back of your throat because it's the furthest thing from the truth. You've never been good at the no-feelings thing, and she probably knows it better than anyone else.

She stops laughing. Her face is so close to yours that you can see the drops of water that are still clinging to her eyelashes. The heavy dark of her eyebrows. The curve of her lips. If you were fifteen years old, you'd want to kiss her, more than anything else.

"Luce," you breathe out. "There's something that I kind of..." You cut yourself off. "Can we talk?"

Her expression shifts. "Is everything ok?"

You nod. "Yes, it's just-"

Before you can say anything else, Keaton appears out of nowhere and nearly crashes down on top of you, shaking his wet curls out of his eyes with much more force than is necessary. Just like that, Lucy is completely distracted again. She rolls her eyes and pretends to be annoyed when he sits down next to her, making the drops of water fly around, but you watch her blush while Keaton tries not to look too pleased with himself.

_You're not fifteen years old anymore._

It hits you with an abrupt sort of shock. You're not fifteen years old and freaking out over sleepovers and gym class and swimming pools. You're not constantly thinking about kissing your best friend. You're not jealous of anyone she looks at that isn't you. Your thoughts don't get stuck on the colour of her eyes for entire hours on end.

You don't really how it happened. One moment you had Barcelona and the beach and wanting nothing but Lucy's lips on your own. The next thing you know, three years have passed and you're feeling homesick for New York. For dark studios and fingers under the fabric of your leotard and a girl who makes your heart speed up every time she smiles at you. 

Lucy catches your eyes and grins, and you used to be so in love with her that you thought you would never get over it, but all of a sudden, somewhere along the way, maybe it happened anyway. 

//

You've typed up so many text messages already - everything from a casual _what's up_ to a heavy string of _I miss you so much_ and _what are you doing to me_ and _I can't fucking stop thinking about you -_ only to delete them all immediately.

Then, Ally corners you about it.

You haven't seen her for a while, because she's been busy at the Barcelona Ballet, but after teaching one of the final masterclasses of your summer school program, she steps right up to you. "Where's Camila?" She sounds genuinely confused. "Did something happen?"

"She'ss in New York," you mumble, placing your hands on the barre. "She had to go back early."

Ally expression softens. "Is that why you've been looking like a kicked puppy?"

"What? I'm not - I don't even look like... like a kicked puppy!"

She gives you a pointed look. "I used your favorite _Rondo Veneziano_ music for warm-up and you didn't even smile."

"Oh-" you sputter. "Well, it's not because of... I'm fine, really."

You turn around, pushing up on your pointe shoes in an attempt to avoid Ally's gaze, but she just circles right along with you. She's silent for a moment, but then she grabs your hand and says, "Lo, I'm sure she knows you love her."

You collapse so hard into your ankle that you nearly knock into the barre. " _What the fuck-"_

Ally's face shifts into panic immediately. "Did I say something wrong?" She steps back, a sudden edge of confusion to her voice. "I just thought... I mean, of course long distance relationships suck, but I'm sure she misses you too and when you see her again next month everything will be just fine again, don't you think?"

Your breath comes out shaky and ragged. "Ally, we're not-" You swallow hard. "-we're not _together."_

There's a beat of silence, and then Ally says, "Wait, what?"

"I told you last month," you stammer out, blush burning high on your cheeks. "I don't like her like that. We're not... We're just friends."

Ally stares at you and then says, "I thought you were just being in denial about it!" She bites her lip, stays silent for a long, confusing moment, but then her eyes suddenly narrow and she folds her arms. "Actually, I don't believe you."

"Don't believe what?"

"You and Camila are not _just friends_."

"Ally-" Your voice sounds weak. "I'm not even int-"

You bite your lip to stop yourself from saying it. Ally is looking at you intently. You can feel your heart hitting hard against your ribcage with the sudden exhaustion and the stress and the uncertainty, and the fact that you're always lying about it, to other people, to yourself."

"Ally," you say again, and then you can't stop anymore and all the words you've been denying yourself work their way up through your throat and into the air."I don't know what to do. I don't know what to feel or how to act and it's driving me crazy. She's driving me crazy and I don't know what is happening to me. And I can't ever talk about it because I don't even know how to explain that she's - that we're - that I'm so..." Your voice falters. "Ally, she's a girl..."

There's a moment of silence, and then Ally says, "Yes?"

You can't understand it. You can't understand how it's not a problem. You can't understand how you can say the very thing that scares you the most out loud to someone else and they don't immediately freak out about it.

"Isn't that-" You nearly choke on it. "-wrong?"

Ally stares at you like she's seeing you for the first time. "Lauren, what are you trying to say?"

"I don't know." There are tears burning at the back of your throat, straining tension in your wrists. "I don't know what to I'm trying to say. I'm not trying to say anything. It's just - aren't you - aren't you supposed to think that's wrong?"

"Why would I think that's wrong?"

You're panicking harder than you have in weeks. "Because of... of... religion?" 

At that, Ally's face finally softens. "Lauren," she says, grabbing your hand. "There's nothing wrong about loving people."

You bite your lip. "But-"

"Listen," she says, squeezing your hand. "I know there's a lot to say about that. It's a complicated issue. A sensitive issue. There's a lot of uncertainty and a lot of people being scared and many things taken out of context, but you know what's not uncertain?" She looks at you. "That all people in the world have the same worth. All people have the same worth and no person should ever have to suffer from hatred or judgement or violence - no matter who we fall in love with." 

You're trembling. "Ally-"

"But is this really about religion, though?" Ally asks. Her voice is soft and kind, never judgmental in any way. You've only ever known her as soft and kind. "Or are you just confused about being in love?"

You tear your gaze away from hers, staring at the ground, not able to say anything. When you finally find your voice again, it's uneven and rough. "Maybe..."

Ally squeezes your clammy palms even tighter. Then, she says, "Let's get out of this studio and finally have that coffee, yeah?"

//

You tell her everything. You've never told anyone the whole story, but Ally doesn't know anything and so you have to start at the beginning. The more you're forced to say things out loud, the more structured your feelings get. You're blushing your way through it, but when you're done, Ally says, "You should tell her. All of it."

You swallow hard, waiting for the white hot edge of your panic to start burning your nerves, but it only simmers, somewhere just out of reach - and so you nod.

"Ok."

//

It's the last day of summer school, and it takes you nearly an hour to find the courage to press 'send' but when she texts you back almost immediately your heart pretty much soars through the roof of your hotel room.

_I'd love to hang out with you tomorrow. Can't wait to see your pretty eyes again. xx_

//

The hall of the airport is crowded and hot. Your mother is exhausted and snappy, trying her very best not to scream at your collective disorganization, but she's failing miserably. By the time all your luggage has finally been checked in and everyone is ready to go through security, she looks like she's about to pass out on the spot.

Naturally, Keaton is making things worse.

He's been stalling like crazy, slowing everyone down by repacking his luggage and running off into the different stores to get last minute souvenirs.

"Keaton, for the love of God," your mother exclaims as he once again starts rearranging something in his backpack. "Must you be this incapable of hurrying up?"

Keaton shrugs. "Sorry, Mrs. Jauregui, I think I forgot my charger at the hotel. If I could just quickly check my bag-"

"You can buy a goddamn charger when we're back in New York!" your mother bites out.

Keaton sighs hard and zips up his backpack, tightening the straps as he stands up and swings it over his shoulders. "All right," he says, taking a deep breath. "I guess this is really it, then."

Lucy is right next to you. You've already hugged her goodbye four different times, but you wrap your arms around her neck one final time. "Next time in New York, again?"

She presses her lips to your cheek. "Count on it."

It's impossible not to notice the shift in the air as you step back and Keaton and Lucy look at each other. You can practically feel the nerves radiating off of Keaton's body as he pushes his hands deeper in his pockets.

"So," he says to Lucy.

"So," she counters.

"You're fun," Keaton says, running a hand through his hair. "I mean - it was fun, hanging out with you. You're... you're... well, _that_."

He trails off. Lucy bites her lip back, looking up at him. "It was fun. You're _that_ too, I guess."

The moment tenses. For some reason you feel like you need to avert your eyes. Keaton's shoulders strain and then your breath hitches in your throat because he suddenly leans forward, almost like he-

He spins around a second later. "Ok, bye."

You're too confused to call him out on it, so instead you give Lucy a quick wave and then hurry after him to where your mother is standing. Keaton is blushing harder than you've ever seen him blush before. You're about to tell your mother to go ahead, but then Keaton abruptly stops walking.

"What?" you say. "What's going on?"

He glances over at you, then at your mother, completely conflicted. "Ok, Sergeant Jauregui might actually kill me, but _fuck it_."

Before you can do anything, he turns around. You only have about a second to spin on your heel as well, before you realize what is happening. Lucy's eyes go wide in confusion, but then Keaton's hands are on her hips and he pulls her into him and kisses her - right in the middle of the airport, right in front of your mother, right in front of you.

_Oh God._

Lucy stumbles a little, but then she seems to realize what is happening, and before Keaton can pull back, she fists her hands in the fabric of his shirt and kisses him back.

You're smiling so hard that it hurts. Some of your classmates start whistling and you look back to find your mother trying very hard to keep her face serious. You can see right through it, though. When you turn again, Keaton mumbles something to Lucy that no one can hear, before breaking away and hurrying over to you.

He's all confidence and cocky smiles and bright blue eyes when he says, "Ok, I think we can go now."

:::

**september**

:::

"Hi."

"Hey."

A beat of silence, then, "It's really you."

"Yes." The word falls breathlessly from your lips. "Yeah, it's me - I thought I'd call you about... about today. Just to see if you're still free. I could come over to your place if you want. Or if you want, you could come over here. I'm at my parents' apartment. Or we could go somewhere in the city, I don't mind. Anywhere - anywhere is fine, really. Anywhere is great."

She's silent for a moment and you bite hard on your lip to keep yourself from being even more of a rambling idiot.

Then Camila says, "God, I missed hearing your voice."

It rushes such a wave of tension through your body that your phone almost slips from your hands.

"I missed you too," you breathe out before you can stop yourself. "I mean your voice." Camila chuckles and you press your fingers hard against your forehead, trying to clear your thoughts. "So, um, are you? Still free, I mean?"

"Yes," she says. "Maybe you could come pick me up at work at 8? I have to work the evening shift, but after that I can be all yours if you want."

It jolts right through you. _God._

"Ok," you say quickly. "Yeah, you can be - I mean... Yeah, I'll be there."

You can almost see her smile. "Ok."

"Ok, see you there."

You've almost hung up already when Camila says, "Don't you need the address?"

_Fuck._

"Right," you mumble. "Please."

She gives you the address and you can hear the smirk in her voice when she adds teasingly, "Are you nervous? You sound a little nervous."

"What?" You try to laugh it off. "No, I'm not nervous. Not at all. That's ridiculous. I'm actually... the opposite of nervous, you know?" You cringe hard at your own stupidity, before adding in a rush, "I need to go. I'll see you at 8. Bye!"

You hang up before you actually die of embarrassment.

//

She's talking to someone.

It's the first thing you notice when you step into the music store. Not the way her hair has gotten longer, wavier. Not that she's still a little bit tan from the Barcelona sun. Not that she's wearing an oversized bright yellow store shirt and still manages to look cute in it. You notice all of that too - but she's talking to someone and it catches you completely off guard.

There's a guy sitting on top of the counter, wearing the same yellow store shirt and telling some sort of story that has got Camila laughing so hard that she nearly seems to choke on it, eyes bright, face flushed.

Despite the stupid _ting-a-ling_ sound of the entrance bell neither of them notice you coming in, and you suddenly feel like you can't breathe. For a moment, you consider turning around, but as you soon as move an inch back the entrance bell goes off again, and this time they do notice you. Camila's eyes go wide, smile breaking through and then she's closing the space between you, stepping up to wrap her arms around your neck before you can do anything about it. It sends a shockwave through your veins; the heat of her body pressed against you as she hugs you close.

"Hi," you mumble into her hair. Breathless and raspy and so soft that you're not even sure she actually hears it.

She leans back and studies you, smile completely addictive. "Wow, you look good."

The bold compliment heats you from the inside out. There's a heavy moment in which neither of you move - just staring at each other and smiling at each other and relishing in all the tension between your bodies - and then Camila says, "Come meet my friend Shawn," and all of it breaks instantly.

The boy sitting on the counter puts the guitar he was tuning down and walks over into your direction. He's got short dark hair, and a kind smile, and he seems genuine and actually _nice_ when he extends his hand and says, "Shawn Mendes. You must be Lauren."

The fact that he knows your name throws you off. When you finally come back to your senses, you quickly shake his hand, trying not to sound too closed-off when you say, "Um - yes."

Shawn smiles. "So, you're the ballet girl."

There's something in his voice that you can't quite place, and for a second your gaze meets Camila's and you can't  help but wonder what she must have said to have this guy look at you like you're-

"How was your flight?" Camila cuts in, blushing slightly and stepping between you.  

You blink hard, still a little taken aback by everything - seeing her again, talking to her again, this new guy that you weren't counting on at all - but then you smile quickly. "It was good. Not as entertaining as our flight to Barcelona, though."

Camila laughs and your heart jumps up at the sound. It pushes a hot shiver of familiarity through your body. God, you can't believe how much you missed her. It's impossible to take your eyes off her, even more so because she keeps looking right back at you, spiking thrill after thrill between you.

Shawn has a slight frown on his forehead, though, and Camila quickly rushes to explain. "It was Lauren's birthday, so we made the entire airline team sing happy birthday through the intercom."

Your smile curls at the memory and then even more as Camila's fingers accidentally brush against yours for a second. You have to fight the urge to reach out and just grab hold of her hand.

(The urge to step up in her space, stroke your fingers over her jaw, thumb over her bottom lip, lean forward and-)

"Ok..." Shawn says. He grins at Camila. "I know working here with me has obviously been the highlight of your summer, but it sounds like you've got some catching up to do. Besides, you know how much I love the High Line at sunset. So get out of here before all my jealousy makes me kick you out."

You frown. "The what?"

Camila's smile only widens. "For how many years have you been living here again, Lauren?" You sputter a bit, but before you can say anything she grabs your wrist and says, "Never mind, I'll show you. Let's go."

//

"So, Shawn seems pretty cool..."

Your voice tightens like it's a question, but Camila doesn't seem to hear your nerves. She's walking slightly in front of you, leading the way through busy Manhattan. Glancing back, she smiles. "Yeah, he's really great. I can't believe you've never walked the High Line."

She turns left onto Gansevoort Street and you have to hurry to keep up with her. "Have you been working together all summer?"

Camila crosses the street. "What, Shawn and I? Yeah, he's trying to save up for college so we worked a lot of shifts together." She starts making her way up the stairs to some sort of elevated platform. "Tell me about Barcelona. What did I miss? How's Keaton? How's your mom? Do you feel like you're ready for third year?"

"You didn't miss a thing.Ã¢" You follow her up the stairs, not really looking around, not really paying attention to where you're going. "So, he's from New York too?"

"What?"

"Shawn. Is he from New York too?"

Camila spins around at the top of the staircase, laughing. You nearly crash into her, a little confused at the sudden halt. "Lauren."

You can feel yourself starting to blush because she's right in front of you, suddenly close. You're trying not to let it show as you breathe out, "What?" 

She grins at you. "Do you really want to talk about Shawn right now?"

For some reason it makes you blush ever harder. "Oh - I didn't mean - I was just... I was just curious." 

"I know." She draws her bottom lip back with her teeth, flicking her gaze up to meet yours. "I just really want to be with you right now." Her eyes go wide. "I mean, be _here_ with you..."

Your breath catches. You're so close to her that your mind spins on the familiarity of it; it's been a month but you know exactly how soft her skin is, how to make her tremble under your fingertips, what she tastes like-

"Anyway, look." Camila turns around with a nervous little laugh that makes your mouth feel even dryer. "Welcome to the High Line."

It's a public park; elevated high above the streets of Manhattan, built on the tracks of an old railroad. Green stretches of grass and plants everywhere, benches to sit down on. It's pretty quiet at this hour; all the families with children have already left, and except for some tourists and the few people in neon sportswear jogging down the length of it, you've got the park to yourself. The end is out of sight, but it looks like it goes on for at least a mile.

You can feel Camila's eyes on you, watching you take it all in. She smiles and says, "There's a really pretty view of the Hudson at the end, and I heard you kind of have a thing for pretty views, so..."

She winks at you and just like that it's like you never left because you can't wait to kiss that smile off her face again. It's like your body can barely keep up with how easy it is to fall back into each other's company, into being close, into the physicality of it all; the racing of your heart, the tension between your hips, the way you want to spin, to fly, to _dance_ with her. The sun will be setting soon, but the lights are turning on around you, making Camila's skin glow as she starts talking about her summer work at the store and about how her family is doing. You tell her about Keaton and Lucy, about the rest of summer school. You stutter your way through telling her how surprisingly good it feels to be back in New York again. It makes her smile, and you can't look away.  

"What are you thinking?"

It catches you off guard. You hadn't realized you stopped walking, lost in thought, just looking at her. "Oh, sorry. What?"

Hand on her hip, eyebrows raised. She smiles and steps closer to you. "You're thinking about something, I can tell. You've got that little crease in your forehead..." She brushes her fingers right over your skin. "...right here." 

You try to fight your blush. "Oh, I was just thinking that - uh... For a moment you trail off because it feels too personal, but then you add in a rush, "... that this is the perfect place for dancing."

Camila's expression softens. "Yeah?"

You've got the Hudson right behind her, the sky looking like a watercolor painting. Soft glow of orange, the pink sharp and light, the blue already fading into darker shades of night. She's standing still in front of you but you can _see_ it; the length of her lines, shifting movement. You're seeing it exactly how you want to see it; this girl, right in front of you, dancing in the street lights of a park built on an old railroad track.

It makes you a little brave.

"Fourth position," you tell her.

She stares at you, corner of her mouth curling up. "Giving orders now?"

There's a hard shiver down the length of your spine, but you force yourself to ignore it. The ideas are already flashing in front of your eyes, all the ways you want to see her dance.

"Please, Camz-"

Camila grins. "Ok, fine."

She kicks her flip flops off, grabs the hem of the oversized yellow store shirt she's still wearing and ties it up into a tight knot on her midriff. Her shorts are low on her hips and the sight of her exposed stomach makes your throat go dry. Camila seems to be completely aware of it, because she winks at you and says teasingly, "What? If you're going to choreograph me, you need to see my body right?" Heat flushes up your cheeks and she grins. "For movement, I mean."

_Fucking hell._

You bite your lip, trying to ignore it. "Fourth position."

Her lips part and for a second it looks like she's going to say something else, but then she straightens her spine, turns her knee out and easily shifts into fourth. "Ok, what now, Lauren?"

There's a husky edge to her voice that nearly makes you want to forget about the whole thing in favor of stepping forward and kissing her, but her bare feet is stretched exactly like you want it to be, the angle of her hip is perfect, and you want to touch her and you want to dance with her, so you step forward and begin to blur the lines. 

(It's always been the same thing, anyway.)

It's been a month since you've done any of this, but it only takes an uncertain minute or two where you jolting at the feeling of her skin under your hands again, blush at the sudden closeness, and then you're pulled back into it like you never stopped.

This is what you're good at; making it up as you go along, the two of you, together. This unspoken tether that makes it possible for her to take your visualization and somehow work it into her body effortlessly. It's like you barely have to think of something before she's already feeling it, testing it out in the extension of her lines, heating it up in the places where your fingertips are on her skin. You only have to give her a little bit - fix the timing of her _balotté;_ focus on the twirl of a _fouetté -_ and she spins off on it, taking over and working it into her own. She dances all your ideas to life.

You're getting breathless watching her.

Sky on fire, lights reflected in her eyes - and then she's right in front of you, spinning into you until you have no other choice but to move along with her, laughing as you lose your balance halfway into your _développé_ and stumble against her.

She's inches from your body, all messy hair and blinding smile, and then she says, "I missed you so fucking much."

It makes you want to tell her _everything_. You're so close to cracking open, so close to just damning everything to hell and telling her exactly how much you missed her too, how your mind has been caught on nothing but her for months, how you want to date her and kiss her and never stop dancing with her and- 

Instead, you blurt out, "Why didn't you text me last month?"

It slides through the air like an ice cold knife. Camila stumbles back a little, blinks hard, and then frowns at you. Your heart is hammering against your rib cage. You can feel your palms getting clammy so you draw them back, creating more space, more distance.

Camila looks down and absentmindedly pulls the knot in her t-shirt loose again. "I thought you said you didn't want that."

Confusion courses through you. "What? When?"

She steps all the way back now, not looking at you as she says, "In the hotel. After we-" You swallow hard. "You said that you didn't want to date or actually... actually be anything - like, for real - so I just thought... I don't know, I thought you wouldn't want me to. I thought I'd give you space."

Your throat feels rough like sandpaper. You're trying to say something. There are so many things that you're trying to say, things that you _have_ to say - but she's quicker.

"Look, Lauren." She glances up at you again. "It's fine. Really. You don't have to like me like that and we don't have to talk about it and it doesn't have to change anything. I just want to keep doing this with you, dancing and choreographing-" She gestures between you and you're biting your lip because she's getting it wrong with every word; she's thinking you don't like her like that and she's thinking the only thing you've got between you is dancing and the worst part is that _you_ are the one who made her think that in the first place. Camila's expression softens a bit. "Third year is going to be difficult, anyway, and you were right in Barcelona. We shouldn't complicate things by making them into more than they are. I loved Barcelona. I loved every second of it. But we're back home now and I know it's not the same, so let's just... Ok?"

You don't know what to say.

Something is stinging in the center of your chest, because you know she's right. You _told_ her that you did't want to date her, and you _thought_ things really would be different when you'd be back in New York - but you've missed her, you've missed her, you've missed her, and all you want to do is tell her the truth. You want to tell her that she's wrong. That you _are_ something for real. But you know she means what she's saying and you can't ignore that either. You can't keep thinking that it's ok for you to continue giving her mixed signals on _your_ terms, until _you_ are ready, until _you_ figure out what you want, and just forget that not everything is up for you decide all by yourself.  

The impossibility of the situation is so tight in the air that you feel like you can't breathe.

You blink hard against the burning behind your eyes, your fear always stronger than language. "Ok. Yeah, of course."

//

Normani is in your Monday morning Choreography elective.

You scream when you see her because third and fourth years get single rooms, which is great when it comes to privacy, and really shitty when it comes to no longer living together with her.

"Oh my god, you look so good!"

Normani grins and throws her hand up in the air. "Atlanta summer, baby."

You hug her close. She pretends to be annoyed for half a moment, but then she laughs and hugs you back, before pulling you to a barre at the back of the studio. It's early in the morning, and your muscles are still tight, but your teacher hasn't arrived in the studio yet, so you've got some time to chat and warm-up. Normani doesn't waste a second.  

"So," she says, putting her leg up on the barre and stretching into it. "Keaton said some interesting things about summer school in Barcelona."

_God._

You try not to blush, walking over to the other side of the barre. "You've been talking to Keaton? Was that ok?"

Normani gives you a look. "I've told you a hundred times already, we're fine, Lo. We've always been better as friends, anyway." She grins. "Don't change the subject. I heard things got pretty hot and heavy in Spain..."

"Did he tell you about Lucy?"

She falls silent for only a second, but then she says, "Yeah, he did. We talked about it." She turns back, facing you again. "It's ok, Lauren. Really. Keaton is a good guy. Besides, I can handle his annoying personality better when he's happy, so it's all good." She grins. "Now, tell me about Camila."

You lose your balance abruptly. " _Mani_."

She gives you the most innocent smile, but you're already getting flustered because you're in a studio with half of your classmates and she's doing nothing to keep her voice down. Besides, you've got no idea how much Keaton has told her already and where to even begin with telling her about your summer.

She gives you a pointed look, but right before you're about to speak up, the door swings open and a young black man walks in. In his sweatpants and shirt, he's not dressed nearly half as fancy as most teachers at Fonteyn. He's got black ballet shoes tied to his sports bag but he drops his stuff on the floor near the mirror and keeps his Vans on as he turns around to face you, taking his snapback off.

You gasp the moment you see his face.

Normani gives you a look and you can barely keep your voice down as you rush out, "Oh my god, it's Davis Vincent. He's a fucking genius."

You're not entirely sure if he heard you, but he glances at you for a second, before turning his attention to the rest of the group, smiling. "Good morning everyone, my name is Davis." His voice is low and warm. It feels like a shot of electricity; you've been trying to talk your mother in cooperating with Davis Vincent for _years_ and now he's here, right in front of you, when you weren't even expecting it. There's a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he adds, "I know it's early, but I hope you're all warm because we're in for something this semester. Welcome to Choreography. Let's get to work."

Seems like your Monday mornings just got a whole lot more interesting than you were ready for. 

//

" _Davis Vincent_?" Keaton nearly chokes on his water. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

His face is bright red, and he coughs hard, trying to catch his breath. You roll your eyes. "Keaton, I told you to pick Choreography as your elective months ago."

"But your mom told me Jazz would make me a more all-round dancer!" You grin at him and Keaton sighs. "Davis Vincent... So damn unfair."

You're sitting outside together, spending your lunch break on the field behind the academy, even though it's not as warm as you'd want it to be. Third year is already so much more different than first and second. The only classes you still share with all third years students are Classical and Contemporary; everything else is taken up by electives. As for academics, it's the same thing, which means for the first time since you started classes at Fonteyn, you actually have to make an effort to get to see your friends.

"He wants to do a lot of location work, said he's going to take us out into the city," you tell Keaton, trying not to sound too much like an over-excited twelve year old, but failing. "He wants us to use New York as inspiration. How great is that? And we get to work with cameras a lot, because Davis says he really wants us to see how we're developing our own style, you know?"

" _Davis_?" Keaton glares at you. "You get to call him Davis? Already?" He shakes his messy hair out of his eyes. "And here I am, stuck in Jazz with Mrs. Rabinov for the next four months... I should've never listened to your mom."

You flash him a smile. "Could have told you that too."

Keaton sighs again. Then, the corner of his mouth curls upwards as he leans forward, getting right into your space. "Guess who gets to enjoy the wrath of Mrs. Rabinov with me, though."

Heat shoots up your neck. _Fuck_. He hasn't even said her name yet and you're already blushing. You're about to shove him away and tell him to fuck off, but before you get to it, Keaton's eyes light up at something behind you and he says, annoyingly loud and clear, "Speak of the devil..."

You're blushing even harder when Camila drops down in the grass next to you and raises her eyebrows at Keaton. "You were talking about me?"

Keaton doesn't waste a second. "Lauren was just saying how much she wishes you would have picked Choreography together with her."

Instantly, you're _this_ close to punching him against his shoulder, but before you can even move an inch, Camila is already smiling at you as she says, "Were you really?"

"Uh... well," you stammer out, ignoring how Keaton mouths _wingman_ at you behind Camila's back. "Y-yeah, I - um - well, we've got Davis Vincent."

Keaton rolls his eyes in clear disappointment and you clench your hands into fists to keep from actually lashing out at him. Camila doesn't seem to notice anything.

Her eyes go wide. "Davis Vincent? Oh my god! I love his work."

It curls hot around the base of your spine. "Really?"

"Yeah! Have you seen his contemporary edition of _Swan Lake_? The one with the girls wearing army boots and guns?"

"Yes!" She smiles at you and you quickly add, "I love that piece so much! He's so fearless in his choreography. He really takes something and makes it his own; doesn't care if it's conventional or not. I wish I could make something that raw and... and challenging."

The sunlight is reflected in Camila's eyes as she leans closer and easily says, "You can."

It stretches between you. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely." For a second her fingers brush against yours on the grass. "You're so good."

She looks so captivating; hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, cheeks still flushed from class, hem of her sweater slipping a little off her shoulder. She's been studying here for two years already and she's still every bit of chaos she was on day one, every bit New York city girl who danced in her underwear during your first class together because she forgot her ballet clothes. The academy can't ever fully make her conform. Can't ever really show her down. You love it more than you want to admit.

The moment stretches. Your heart beating fast and your fingers itching to stroke a loose strand of hair behind her ear, your mouth needy and wanting-

"Anyway..." Keaton grins. "At least Mrs. Rabinov's  thorough dedication to technical training will prepare us for a lifetime of hard work and broken toes at the Bolshoi. If that's not a shiny career perspective I don't know what is."

Camila laughs and the moment breaks and Keaton grins and says something else that goes right over your head because you're left blushing, thinking that if you would have just said _yes_ back in Barcelona, you wouldn't need even a second of consideration; you'd kiss her whenever you'd feel like like it.

//

Lucy doesn't want to talk about Keaton.

Every single time you try to bring it up over the phone or over Skype, she deflects. You can't really understand why because the whole airport incident seemed intense enough to be something she'd want to discuss with you, but for some reason every time you mention Keaton's name, Lucy suddenly changes the subject.

Keating is being vague about it too, but then again, Keaton is always being incoherent about everything, so it doesn't really help the situation.

You keep pushing your luck.

"But are you talking to him at all?" You're in front of the mirror, laptop open on your bed, getting ready for your early morning class. "Is he a good kisser? Do you like him? Do you _love_ him?"

It's meant to be joking, but Lucy snaps so suddenly at you that you drop your hair brush on your foot. "I said I don't want to fucking talk about it, ok?"

You spin around, walking over to your bed. "Ok. Jesus. You don't have to yell at me."

Lucy gives you a look. "And you don't have to keep asking me the same dumb questions over and over again."

You pull your laptop up on your lap. "Luce, what's going on? Just talk to me. Why can't we talk about it?"

"Because-" she bites out. "Because you - because it's complicated."

"What is?"

"Talking about it with you."

It knocks hard against something in your chest. "What? Why?"

Lucy is silent for a long, hard moment. Then she says, "I don't know."

That makes it even more confusing. You shift forward, pushing your clothes and your books off your bed so you can properly look at the screen, trying to find something in her expression that will make you understand, something to make things feel less weird.

"Luce..."

Something breaks open in her face. "Maybe I like him, ok? There's your goddamn answer. Maybe I could really like him. But unfortunately my track record of really liking people and having them actually like me back is not the greatest -  as you know."

_Oh_.

It rushes a wave of nerves through your stomach. She can't be talking about- 

"But Keaton _does_ like you..." you mumble finally, which isn't exactly the thing you should be talking about, but you can't find it in yourself to bring that up, not now, not over Skype. "I think he could really like you too."

Lucy rolls her eyes. "He lives in fucking New York. It doesn't make a difference. Anyway, I said I don't want to talk about it."

You stay silent for a moment, before saying. "Ok, yeah. I need to get to class anyway."

She nods, says a quick _bye_ and then hangs up on you. You're left on your bed, half dressed in your ballet clothes and trying to ignore the heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach, thinking you should have talked about this when you were in Barcelona last night, thinking you should have talked about this back when you and Lucy were still in the middle of it all, instead of letting Vero force you to keep everything in the dark.

(It seems like something of a pattern; things always get lost in the dark.)

//

September quickly contracts. Every hour of every day is either filled with classical and contemporary training, your choreography elective, or homework and studying for tests. You'd expected third year to be tough, and after your Barcelona ballet school it's not like you can't handle a little bit of pressure, so it shouldn't be an issue. But the problem is that you've barely got any time for anything else; not for your family, not for your friends, not for the city.

It's a shame because for the first time it feels like you're loving New York for New York. After two months in Spain, after two months of everything being different, being here again seems to spin your heartbeat right back to its regular rhythm. You've missed the streets, you've missed the rush. You know your way around and you want to spend your time _being_ around - but you barely get a second to breathe.

All you've got are days where the hours blur into one another and you move yourself from one sweaty studio to the next, sometimes not even making it out of Fonteyn.

You also forgot about Brad.

He calls you on Wednesday afternoon. You're just done with your contemporary class, walking down the corridor with your bag swung over your shoulder. You're too tired to check caller ID so before you've realized it you're talking to him.

He chit chats a bit about summer, tells a couple of shady anecdotes of 'shit he got up to with the boys' and then asks if you feel like hanging out again some time. You're so confused by the fact that he's talking to you like it's still June, like nothing even happened, until you remember that he doesn't _know_ that anything has happened. It makes your throat constrict. You tell him you're kind of busy this month and he says that's cool, and you hang up again.

The tightness in your throat doesn't leave all day; you can't believe you forgot, you can't believe you got so busy with everything else that you forgot that your life is actually a really big fucking mess.

(It's bound to catch up with you.)  

//

Before you know it, nearly a month has passed, and you've barely talked to Camila outside of class.

You're in one of the empty studios, trying to work on your piece for Davis Vincent's class when the music coming from the speakers cuts short as your phone starts ringing. You're sweaty and out of breath, frustrated with the lack of progress you're making, frustrated with the interruption. You sound more than a little agitated when you yank your phone out of the speaker set. "Hello?"

"Hey."

All your frustration eases at once. "Oh, hi."

Camila barely gives you a second to adjust. "Hey, I'm really sorry for calling you. I know it's kind of late, it's just - I sort of having a situation and I don't really know what to do and I don't know what you're doing right now, if you're even free or not, but I could really use your help. I hate to ask, but-"

"Camz." The tension in her voice is making you breathe even faster. "What's going on? Slow down."

You can hear her take a deep breath, and then she says, "You know McCarren Park?"

It takes you a second. "Uh - I think so. I mean, I can google it."

"Can you come meet me at the playground?"

You have no idea what's going on. You're in your ballet clothes in the middle of creating your first choreographing piece that will be graded, but you don't hesitate for even a second. "Yes. Of course. I'll be there as soon as I can."

//

"I really owe you."

You shrug. "No, no. I don't mind."

Camila sighs. "Sorry, I just didn't really know what to do. He came out of nowhere and just slammed into me. I wasn't even cycling. We were just leaving the park to go home, and I'd bring it to the repair shop myself, but with Sofi and Rowan I didn't really have my hands free and-" She smiles at you. "You're a lifesaver. Really. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

You can feel your cheeks starting to heat up, but the sun is setting so you hope she doesn't notice. "Are you ok though? He didn't hurt you?"

"No." She gives you a faint smile. "Luckily the bike took most of the hit."

You stare at the sharp bend in the front wheel and the gear strings hanging loose. "What an asshole..." Sofi giggles at the curse word and you quickly talk over it. "I mean, I can't believe someone would just leave you like that, without offering to help."

Camila shrugs. "Some people are like that."

She pulls Rowan up on her hip. He's falling asleep against her shoulder, all messy hair and sticky toddler cheeks. You can't help but smile at the sight. It's been a while since you saw him and Sofi, but both of them are just as cute as they were the last time you saw them. Of course, the sight of Camila kissing Rowan's head and stroking her fingers over Sofi's cheek isn't really helping.

You realize you're staring, so you quickly lean forward to grab her bike, just to give yourself something to do. "So, what's the plan? Somewhere we can take this?"

"Yeah," she says, "There's a place a couple of blocks from here. The owner's a friend of my dad's. I usually take my bike there for repairs, anyway."

She smiles at you, before letting her gaze fall to your body. You're in sweats, wearing only a leather jacket over your leotard because you didn't bother to properly change. You can feel your skin grow hotter as Camila looks at you. It takes a second too long, and then she tears her gaze away and says, Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ok, yeah. I'll really make it up to you, I promise."

You tell her again that doesn't have to, but this time the thought shoots a hot bolt of lightning through your stomach, anyway.

//

The guys at Ride Brooklyn Williamsburg tell you that they're closing in half an hour, but as soon as they see the state of her bike, they take pity on Camila. You're told that they will see what they can do about it while you wait. Sofi gets a couple of bicycle bells to play with which is enough to keep her occupied. Rowan is still sleeping soundly against Camila's shoulder, when the two of you slide down against the wall of the empty bike store while the mechanics work in the back.

"What were you rehearsing when I called you?" Camila says. "The piece for Davis' class?"

"Yeah."

"How's that going?"

You look at her. "Honestly? Not that great."

Her brow furrows. "Really? How come?"

"I don't know." You sigh hard. "I just - I really want to do well. This class is so useful and so inspiring, and I just... I love choreography. I really love it. But then, every time I start to work on it, I just get frustrated with myself."

You don't mention that it feels like you're struggling because you need to choreograph something all by yourself, without having _her_ to work with.

"Because it's graded?" Camila says. "Because of the pressure?"

You shift a little, getting slightly flustered talking to her about this. "No. I mean, yeah, that too. But it's more-" You clench your hands together, looking at the floor as you try to find a way to explain it. "I just want to say so many things."

Her leg is close enough to yours that her bare knee is brushing against your sweatpants. She softly bumps it against yours, and you're not entirely sure if it's intentional or not. "What do you mean?"

You run your tongue over your bottom lip, feeling even more vulnerable. "I want it to be alive. I want it to be personal. I don't want to have the same ideas as everyone else, you know?" She doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at you with something in her eyes that you can't really place. It sparks a strange sort of confidence in your chest, though, so you add, "If I'm going to make my own stuff, I want to say something with it. It needs to be true and it needs to be bold - and... and it needs to kick people's chests open and flood them with fire. That's how I want to choreograph. Smack everyone into feeling something when they look."

Camila is silent for a moment. Then she says, "Show me."

Any sort of bravery leaves your body instantly. "What, now? Here?"

She grins at you. "Yeah. Now. Here. I want to see."

"But I don't-" You sound nervous. "It's not finished yet and I told you that I keep getting stuck and - and besides, we need to watch Sofi."

Camila laughs. "Thanks. I appreciate the concern for my baby sister, but I think she's fine. Come on, Laur..." She gives you a look that sends a shiver down your spine. "You want to be bold, don't you? Or is it all empty words?"

Blood rushes up to your cheeks. "No, but-"

She kinks her eyebrow up at you. "But what?"

You bite your lip, still hesitating for a second. But then you get up, pull your portable speakers from your bag and grab your phone and scroll through your music list. It takes you a moment to find the song (though you're also stalling) but then you put the speaker set on the floor and press play.

The heavy piano chords echo through the empty bike shop, one by one.

You close your eyes.

Minutes later, you open them again to find her staring at you with something in her eyes that burns hot under your skin.

"Was that-" You take a breath. "I told you it's not finished. It's - I can't get it right and it feels like it's incomplete, like I need someone else to work with and-"

"Lauren," she says.

You stop talking. For a moment there is nothing but silence between you and then Camila says, "Fuck, I felt that everywhere..."

It slams all the air from your lungs. "Really?"

She nods slowly.

You bite on your lip, something tight in your throat as you say, "I want to dance it with you." It's entirely too honest, entirely too real. But she's looking at you like you really did kick the fire into her chest and that makes you braver than anything else. "I want it to be everything. Pushing and pulling, and contradictions and multitudes. Feeling hollow and feeling whole at the same time. Wanting things but being too scared to get them. Everything part of something else. Like your audition song. I want to dance it with you. I need to dance it with you. Camz, it's-" Your breath hitches. "I'm only thinking about you."

She stares at you, something so familiar in the curve of her lips. "Laur..."

You step forward, step closer, but before you can say anything else, the door to the back opens abruptly and one of the bike mechanics walks out, pushing Camila's bike forward. "As good as new, ladies!"

All the tension snaps. 

The mechanic is looking at you expectantly and Camila gets up off the floor immediately, saying something to him that goes entirely over your head because you're still thinking about other things. She walks up to the counter, calls for Sofi and shushes Rowan who looks like he's about to wake up. She glances back over her shoulder, giving you a helpless look. "Can you hold him for a second so I can pay?" 

"Oh-" You stumble forward. "Uh - yeah, sure."

She hands him over like it's no big deal and for a second you're completely paralyzed, not really knowing what to do. You shift him a little bit in your arms so that his forehead is resting against your collarbone, praying silently that he won't wake up completely.

"Shh," you whisper. "It's ok, buddy. I've got you." 

He's soft and warm and sleepy. Camila pays and thanks the man again for his quick assistance, and then holds out her hand to Sofi.

There's a soft smile on her face when she looks at you again. "Do you want me to take him again?"

You shake your head. "No, no. It's fine. It's - no problem. I've got him."

Her smile curls wider. "Ok, let's go home."

//

You're standing in the darkness of Camila's apartment, still carrying Rowan in your arms while Camila gets Sofi into bed. He's completely relaxed into your embrace, his little body heaving up and down against your chest as he breathes. You hum a little, slowly moving around the apartment and softly rocking him like you're dancing in slow motion. He snuggles closer into your neck and you absentmindedly press a kiss to his forehead.

"That's not fair."

You look up. Camila is leaning against the door post looking at you. "What is?"

Her eyes are glinting in the darkness. It takes a second but then she says, "You've got to stop being so cute."

It heats you up. Before you can think about the consequences, you breathe out, "Yeah? Why?"

Camila's expression darkens a bit. For a moment you think she's not going to say anything, but then she flicks her gaze up at you and says, "Because it makes me want to kiss you."

_Fuck._

You've got to bite down on your lip to keep yourself from reacting too much. Still, the thought shoots all sorts of feelings through your body at once. You swallow hard, trying to keep your cool, trying not to think of what she's saying, of-

She steps forward and for one paralyzing moment you think she's actually going to do it. But then she reaches out and slowly takes Rowan from your arms. "I'll put him to bed."

"Yeah, ok." You cough. "Yes."  

She walks back into the darkness of the bedroom, leaving you standing in the half lit apartment, not really knowing what to do with yourself. You're thinking about Monday morning, about your Choreography class. You're thinking of what you've got in your mind for your piece. Of trying to be bold and brave and honest.

The moment she steps out again, you force yourself to say it.

"Will you dance it with me? The piece for Davis Vincent's class."

Camila looks at you, and then she nods. "Okay."

//

She skips her Jazz class for it.

You can feel Davis' eyes on you as you make your way onto the stage, the last ones of the group to perform. You can feel everyone's eyes on you. Somehow it doesn't make you nervous. The stage is empty, safe for the black folding chair you placed in the middle of it. You sit down. Feel Camila right behind you; her hands covering yours; like a ghost, like a shadow; like the one thing you need to make it work; to pull you out of yourself and into what you made.

You close your eyes - and the music starts.

When it's over, there is nothing but silence. Silence and Davis' eyes and Camila's body, so close to you, her breathing mingling with yours, tension and release all at once, your heart beating high, your body wanting, wanting, _wanting_ \- and then everyone starts clapping.

//

Shadows of the stage wings.

She walks in front of you, moving to put the chair away, the last one on stage. Everyone has left already, but you're here, in the darkness, seconds away. She skipped her Jazz class for it. She said you shouldn't complicate things. She said she wanted to kiss you.

The metal of the chair connects with the floor, and then your hand is on her wrist and you spin her into you. Your mouth hot on hers; kiss her like you've been wanting to for the entire month already. Fire kicked into your chest.

Feeling it everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hi guys,
> 
> I've been thinking about what to write here because I've been gone for so long and I wanted to take a moment to explain why, but I thought I'd write it at the end rather than at the beginning because I figured you're all here for the chapter haha. 
> 
> Earlier this year, my father passed away. He'd been suffering from lung cancer since December last year, so it's been a pretty rough year. On top of that, any writing that I did in the past six months was for applications to Creative Writing programs which were all really demanding. I got done with those about two weeks ago, which is why I took so long to upload the new chapter. Things are still a little bit rocky, but I am still planning on finishing this fic. I just don't know how long it's going to take me.
> 
> About the chapter itself, I know it's a bit of a set-up/filler chapter. It took me a long time get inspiration for it again, and I'm not sure if I really managed to keep things interesting. But I promise things will pick up again soon! Don't worry. It's gonna get wild. :) 
> 
> Finally, I hope you are all doing well. Happy New Year. I hope you have a wonderful day wherever you are in the world.
> 
> \- Blake
> 
> P.S. The dancing piece I imagine Lauren and Camila performing for Lauren's choreography class is a piece danced by Emma Porter and Ellen Page to "Slack Jaw" by Sylvan Esso. Go check it out on YouTube, it's gorgeous! (credit where credit is due)


	10. the third year | october – december

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Sorry for the wait. The first scene along took me about four weeks to write because I just couldn't get it right. Also, I had already written the entire chapter when I found out that Luna Park is not actually open in November... Oh well. This is a work of fiction anyway :) 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Blake

_Le Sacre du Printemps_ is coming to a close. It’s been something like a fever; all these minutes sitting in the London Royal Opera House, watching her like this, feeling it spill inside of you. Your thoughts are racing, nerves beginning to build low in your stomach. It’s the final part of the performance – final moments of watching her on stage like this – and you don’t know what is going to happen once the lights go on again.

(You’ve never really known what to do when the lights go on.)  

:::

It’s messy and fast, hot and desperate.

She kisses you back, and you’re completely at her mercy, pushed up hard against the backstage wall of the theater. She has you hot under her fingertips, has you needy and wanting and _desperate_ , has you nearly on your goddamn knees for her…

You’re aching for it. Want to go as fast as possible. With your fingers on her throat, your tongue between her teeth, already dragging the hem of her shirt up, wanting more, wanting all of her, as close to you as possible, want to have it before she slips away again and you’re lost and—

She pulls back, catching your hand in hers before you can continue. 

You still instantly. “Sorry. _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry – I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers against your mouth. “It’s not that I don’t… I just…” She trails off, uncertain for a moment, before looking up at you as she adds, “Lauren, what do you want?”

It clears your head instantly. _God._ You’re so stupid.

“I…” you start. “I don’t know. I thought we could…”

“What?” Camila’s bottom lip trembles a little. “Have sex and then pretend it never happened? Again?”

Your breathing is rough, uneven. There’s blood rushing between your ears and you’re not sure if the heat on your cheeks is from kissing her or from shame, or maybe both.

She’s looking at you, eyes dark, not exactly demanding, but waiting, waiting, always waiting – for you to meet her halfway, to break through, to finally say something real, something honest. You can feel the pressure building inside your body. You want to say something, but you don’t know how. Nerves are clouding your thoughts, anything like a confession staying just outside of your reach, always just too far away from you.

“Camz…” You swallow hard, not knowing what to do or what to say, silently pleading for her to understand, before panicking and blurting out, “Well, what do _you_ want?”

Her eyes widen like she didn’t expect you to turn the question back to her. She’s silent for a moment, still so close to you, holding your hand, neither of you ready to break away completely. The tension heightens, but then Camila brushes a strand of loose hair behind your ear, takes a sharp inhale and breathes out, “I just want to go out with you.”  

“What?”

It startles you; the honesty, the self-assurance.

Camila’s expression softens. “I want to go out with you,” she says again. “I want to take you places and hold your hand and kiss you. Without worrying that you’re going to hate me for it every time.” She drags her bottom lip back with her teeth, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t know, Lauren. Just… watch movies together and go to art museums and talk about things. Buy you coffee before class. Go swimming. Give you hickeys.” She leans a little closer into you, gives you half a smile. “What I want is not that complicated, really.”

There’s no space between your bodies. You can still feel the momentum from dancing together trembling in your bones, from kissing her like that, from what she’s saying to you now. All of it simmering through you; all the things she’s telling you, the images she’s flooding your mind with – all the ways you could be together if only you could stop being scared of it.

“I’m going to screw it up.”

You’ve said it before you can hold yourself back. Camila’s eyes are wide, searching. Trying to make sense of what you are and _aren’t_ saying at the same time. “Screw what up?”

You inhale sharply. It’s like time slows down into the moment. Breathing in the same air, the same _everything_ – something pushing hard inside of you as you say, “Everything.”

She stares you. “Lauren—”

“I ruin everything,” you choke out. “It’s like I have no control, and things just keep spinning and spinning and—” You swallow hard, don’t know what you’re trying to say. You can barely register anything other than building panic. All you know is that you’re breaking open, cracking open right in front of her, and she’s seeing all of your vulnerability at once, and you can’t stop it. “Anything that gets too close, I ruin it. I screw it up. Even if I don’t want to. Even if I’m trying not to—”

“Lauren.”

It’s your panic talking. Your voice is strangled, saying things you didn’t plan to say, things you wish you weren’t, things too honest for how scared you are. “And I don’t want you to – I wouldn’t know what to do if you’d…”

“Laur…”

“Please don’t—” You bite it back, but it’s this trembling, out of control sentence, this one thing you need to say to be braver. “ _Please don’t leave_.”

Camila’s eyes are shining hard in the shadows of the wings.

You didn’t realize you were this scared of it.

She moves forward, cups your face between her palms, stroking her fingers slowly over your cheeks – and then she leans in and kisses you, this single moment of softness. When she pulls back, her lips are inches from your own. “Baby, I’m right here…”

It jolts through you.

She’s never called you that before, and for a moment your whole body goes tight and loose at the same time. Camila blinks hard, as if she’s realizing it too, but then she presses her lips to yours and kisses you again, slow and long and working through your tension. Her fingers are steady on your cheek, the press of her body against yours unwavering. It’s a minute, then another. Losing track of time. Her mouth so sweet and wanting under yours. You can’t pull back.

For a moment, it’s like nothing will ever leave this place; this strange gap in your reality where everything you say or do will stay right here, between the wings of the theater, between you and her.

Maybe it’s okay.

Maybe it’s okay if she sees you like this; with all your haunted fears, your broken confidence.   

“Hey…” Camila mumbles when she finally pulls back from you. “We don’t have to know everything. We just need to find a way to figure it out.”

She’s still got your hand in hers, fingers loosely intertwined. She brings it up slowly and presses a kiss to the side of your wrist, then another to the inside of it, right on your pulse. It’s so unexpected and soft that your breath releases nearly all the tension from your body. Still, you can feel your body pulling for something affirmative, for something to steady all this mess.

“I missed you so much.” You blurt it out. Maybe it’s not the right way to say it but you’re desperate to keep her close. “When I was in Barcelona, I missed you every single day. I couldn’t wait to go back to New York. And I know we talked about it, and I know you said it’s not the same, and maybe it isn’t, but Camz, what if…” Your voice cracks with your nerves. “What if it _feels_ the same?”

Her breath hitches. She’s so close to you that you can nearly feel the heat of the blush rushing up her cheeks. She’s silent for a moment and then she says, “That’s the thing. I keep thinking that it only feels the same for you when we’re doing this.”

It’s like ice water down your spine.

She must have felt your body respond, because she hesitantly moves back even further, creating more space between your bodies. “Sorry,” she says. “I just – Lauren, you said you weren’t ready, and I’m not trying to push you. I’m really not. But I have to say it, because I don’t know if we’re really getting anywhere. That’s why I didn’t just want to…” She blushes harder, making an unclear gesture between your bodies. “I’m scared _that_ will screw it up.”

It must be all over your face, because she reaches forward and touches your lips for a second, before she adds in an uncertain whisper, “I just don’t want to do anything until you’re sure you really want it.”

You feel like you can’t breathe. “I’ll ruin it. I’m so fucking scared I’ll ruin it.”

She nods. “I know. That’s why I’m saying this.”

The moment stills as you lean into her touch. Absentmindedly you grab hold of her hand against your lips and kiss the tips of her fingers. It’s one mixed signal after the other, you know it is. But somehow you’re counting on her to understand. You’re counting on her to know it, to feel your every trembling thought, even if you can’t voice them out loud.

“So,” you finally whisper. “What do we do now?”

Her chest heaves up with her inhale. “I don’t know, Lauren. Let me know, I guess.”

You want to say something; something other than _I’m scared_ and _I don’t know_ and _I’m sorry_ – but it’s impossible to get any of the words out, so instead you lean forward and press your lips to hers, some final moment of honesty.

Camila lingers.

(For a second longer, breathing in the same air, the same everything.)

Then she pulls back, and walks away.

Your mouth tastes entirely of confliction – and maybe you should be used to it by now, but you never really are.

:::

**october**

:::

“Mija, have you thought about internship placements yet?” Your mother smiles at you from across the dinner table. “Perhaps Paris? I think Moscow would be a great option too.”

You look up at her. “I thought only fourth years get to do internships.”

“Well, yes.” Your mother shrugs. “But it’s not too early to start considering it. Sometimes they’ll take third year second semester students, so you never know. We’ll likely be welcoming some new students here from January onwards.”

“And you want me to go to Moscow?”

Your mother smiles. “It’s a great place, Lauren. Very competent teachers. Especially when it comes to classical training. I know you’ve been all caught up in that choreography elective of yours, but I think it might be good to re-focus on your future—”

You scoff. “We haven’t even completed the first semester of third year.”

“Well…” Your mother seems a little taken aback by your disinterest. “It’s never too soon to start thinking about your opportunities. These placements are very limited so you really have to start figuring out what it is that you want.”

It strikes at you harder than you were ready for. “Why does everyone constantly ask me that goddamn question?” Your mother’s eyes go wide and you regret it instantly, because it’s not her you’re frustrated with. Still you can’t help but bite out, “What if I don’t fucking know what I want?”

Clara gives you a hard look. “Okay, this attitude is absolutely uncalled for. I don’t know what has gotten you to be so snappy, Lauren, but it’s your ballet career that we’re talking about and—”

“Can you ever talk about anything other than ballet?”

She falls silent.

On the couch, Chris has stopped playing his video game. His eyes are still on the screen, but his fingers are motionless on the console. Taylor, who’s sitting on the other side of the table trying to get through some homework, has paused her writing. The only sound is coming from your father’s study, where you can still hear him talking on the phone, oblivious to anything going on around him.

Your mother coughs. “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

It’s your turn to be taken aback. “Uh…”

“Let’s hear it, then.” Your mother folds her hands together. “What’s going on? Are you fighting with your friends? Something else I need to know about? Tell me what’s on your mind, mija.”

For half a moment, you actually consider saying something. But then your fear kicks in, and you turn around, walking off into the kitchen before she can call you back.

You turn the tap on and hold your wrists under the running water, trying to ease some of the tension. Closing your eyes, you breathe in and out a couple of times. Only when you turn the water off again, you notice that your mother is right next to you.

She reaches for the towel and then grabs your hands in hers, rubbing them dry for you.

“Mom…”

“Just let me.” After a moment, she throws the towel on the kitchen counter and holds your hands in hers instead. “Okay, now tell me what is going on.” 

It aches a little at the bottom of your throat. “I don’t – there’s nothing that I want to talk about…” She brushes her fingers through your hair and the softness is a little too much for your defenses. Before you can hold yourself back, you say, “I don’t know what to do.”

Your mother’s eyes are deep with concern. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” Your voice cracks. “It’s too much. Everyone keeps pushing me to do things or want things or _figure things out_ – and I don’t know how to do that. How do you know what you want? I feel so goddamn stupid all the time, and I’m confused about everything, and I want to say something or do something, but I don’t know how to say it and I’m so scared that at some point she will just—”

You stop talking abruptly.

_Fuck._

The rush of panic at your slip up is so forceful that you nearly lose your balance, having to steady yourself against the kitchen counter with shaking fingers. Your mother’s expression remains exactly the same, and you’re thinking that maybe she didn’t hear it, that maybe you can just talk over it and forget the whole thing and—

“That she will just…?” your mother says.

“ _Nothing_ ,” you snap. “Never mind. Nothing. I’m fine. I think I’ll get back to Fonteyn. Still need to practice for my solo and—”

“Lauren.”

You rush past her, already halfway out of the door. “Never mind. I’m okay. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Lauren, we can talk about this. We can—”

You don’t want to talk. You’re out of the door before she can stop you. You need to dance.

//

“You’re going to break your ankles if you keep going like that.”

The voice barely makes it over the loud music, but you spin around anyway, coming to an abrupt halt when your eyes fall on your choreography teacher standing in the doorway of the studio. Davis Vincent is leaning against the wall, a large bag swung over his shoulder. He’s also holding a dozen or so tripods under his arm.

“Sorry.” You’re breathless. “I didn’t think anyone would still be here.”

“No need to apologize, Lauren,” he says. “I need to set up the video cameras for tomorrow’s class, though. So I’m afraid you have to find a different studio if you want to practice some more.” He gives you a pointed look. “Though, like I said, you might dance yourself an injury.”

You hadn’t realized how hard your muscles were aching, but now that you’ve come to a stop, you can barely steady yourself, trembling all over.

“Here,” Davis throws you your towel that’s hanging over the edge of the barre. “Cool down for a moment. Then you can help me set up for tomorrow.”

He doesn’t talk to you like any of the other teachers at Fonteyn. You’ve noticed it before, but it surprises you once again. He doesn’t shy away from you like the younger teaching assistants your mother has appointed. He doesn’t constantly praise the heavens for your talent like Mrs. Rabinov and the older faculty. He treats you like he treats everyone else; kindly, strictly, like you’re more than your last name. 

As you stretch your painful muscles, he moves around the room, putting down tripods and adjusting the camera angles.

“So,” he says after a moment. “Got something on your mind?”

It catches you a little off guard. “Um – what do you…”

He smiles softly. “I just mean, is there any reason you were going at it that hard? Anything you want to talk about?”

There’s no judgement in his voice, just interest. You shift your weight from one leg to the other, feeling the burn on the inside of your thigh.

“Just feeling a little stressed out lately,” you admit.

At that, Davis leans against the barre and looks at you. “I get that.” He’s silent for a moment, just watching you from across the room, before he adds, “That solo you performed last week was really something.”  

You nod slowly, trying to decide how much of the truth you want him to know. For some reason the fact that he’s new at the academy puts you a little bit at ease. He doesn’t know you, hasn’t got any idea how you’ve been dancing the past years, who your friends are, who you’re thinking of when you’re—

“It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches at the back of your throat. “What?”

Davis shifts forward. “Camila?”

He walks back to one of the tripods closer to where you’re standing and adjusts something. “It’s none of my business, really, but I couldn’t help but notice. It looks like you charge something really intense in each other. Creatively and…” His gaze locks in yours. “Personally, maybe?” 

You’re feeling hot with it, scared he can see it on your face. “She’s not — I mean, I don’t really think we’re—” You swallow hard, eyes shutting closed for a second, before you force yourself to look up and be honest. “Yeah, maybe.”

Davis gives you half a smile. He doesn’t push any further, just continues setting up the room while you finish with your stretching exercises. The silence eases some of your tension, to the point where you feel much calmer when you pull your sweater over your head.

Then Davis says, “I know how hard it is to be involved with someone you work with.”

There’s an implication there that you want to ignore completely, but his words still spark your interest. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” He nods, then laughs out loud. “My boyfriend and I used to dance for the same company.”

“You’re _gay_?”

You’ve said it before you can hold yourself back. Davis gives you a pointed look, something like a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Lauren. I’m gay.”

“But—”

He straightens his spine. “Yes?”

“You don’t even…” you stammer. “You don’t look gay.”

He laughs out loud. “You can’t be serious.”

Shame runs up your neck like wildfire. He keeps his eyes on you, watching you take in his response, watching you as you quickly start to backtrack. “Sorry – I didn’t mean it like that. I – sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curls upwards. He takes a step forward until he’s standing across from you at the barre. “But you did, though. You did mean it like that.”

You don’t know what to say.

Davis seems to feel your tension because he gives you a soft smile and then adds, “It’s okay. We’re all conditioned to assume things about other people. We’ve all got ideas in our head about the way things look – about what is feminine, what is masculine, what is gay, what is straight.” His smile widens. “Point is that it’s up to you whether or not you want to challenge those ideas.”

Something about his words settles strongly behind your ribs, hums low in the center of your chest.

Davis nods at the mirrored wall that is standing beside you, looking at his own reflection as he says, “Funny thing is, I _do_ look gay. Because I am. This is what gay looks like, too – even if it’s not your idea of it.”

You bite your lip, eyes involuntarily drifting from Davis’s reflection to your own. Your long messy hair, the sweaty strands of it falling loosely around your face. The way your skin is pale from sleepless nights. Muscles of your neck tense. Faded, black _The 1975_ t-shirt, hem of it tugged into the waist of your tightest dancing shorts. The red nail polish on your nails. Your eyes dark and tired. This constant strain in your jaw, like you’re holding your breath. Like you’re trying so very hard to not let anything slip.

The shock of looking at yourself like this – of _really_ looking at yourself – hits you sudden and hard. You have to swallow against it, swallow hard against the burning and the ache and how much it hurts, the way you’re never really willing to _see_ —

“Hey.”

Davis’s hand is on your wrist, pulling you back into the present moment. His eyes are kind and close. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Yeah… I’m fine. It’s – it’s not that. I just…” You close your eyes, too overwhelmed with the confrontation of it, and then you breathe out, “I feel like I can’t see myself.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You mean right now?”

You shake your head. “All the time.”

Admitting it out loud rushes through your body like a gust of cold wind; it stings a little but opens up your lungs at the same time. Davis squeezes your wrist a little tighter. He’s silent for a moment, the studio empty except for the sound of your breathing. Then, he steadies his fingers on the barre again, making you look up. “What do you think dancing is for?”

“What?”

You think it’s an empty question, one he’s either going to leave hanging in the air between you or answer himself, but instead he says, “Why do you think we do it? Why do we listen to music or watch films or read books or look at paintings? Why do we dance?”

“I don’t know—” He gives you a look, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “You should ask Camila.”

Davis’s laugh breaks right through the tension. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling a little, despite yourself. “Yeah, she loves talking about things like that.”

“What do you think she’d say?”

You bite your lip hard. “I don’t know. She’d probably say we dance to… to… to feel alive or something.”

It comes out shaky, like a question. But the second you say it, it’s like something clicks, like the trembling, uncertain part inside your chest shifts into place. You can almost picture her smiling at you, looking at you like she was in the bike repair shop when you were talking about all the things you want people to feel when you choreograph something.  

“Maybe we do it to feel more like ourselves,” you add, trying the thought out loud. “Dancing and books and music and films and paintings. To see ourselves more clearly – reflected in one way or another, mirrored back to us.”

You look up at Davis for affirmation, but he just smiles and shrugs, not confirming or denying anything. Then, he gestures towards the cameras. “Guess we’ll find out.”  

//

It doesn’t go like you expect it to go. Working with cameras is _horrible_.

Davis pairs you up with Normani, which is probably for the best, because the moment you get to see the material you shot during class, you can feel yourself slipping into complete Clara Jauregui mode.

“What the fuck is wrong with me…” You dig your fingers unnecessarily hard in Normani’s arm and she flinches away from you. “It’s all wrong. Look at my leg. That arabesque is not nearly half as high as it has to be.”

Normani rolls her eyes. “Stop it.”

“And my shoulders are way too tense. Why didn’t you tell me?” You watch yourself on screen with wide eyes, completely terrified at everything you’re doing wrong. “Back should be straighter, and my _port de bras_ is— oh my god, Mani, this is awful.”

Normani abruptly slams the laptop closed. “You sound like your mother.”

“Well, yeah, my mother knows what she’s talking about!”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Come on. The point is choreography. Davis said we’ll work on execution later. Maybe for once you can try to pay attention to what it is that you’re trying to get across, not what it looks like.”

“That’s easy for you to say when all your camera shots are utter perfection!”

“Lo, seriously—”

“How’s it going here?” Davis lowers himself to the floor to sit down next to you.

Normani sighs hard, but opens the laptop screen again, showing him the recordings. They talk a little bit about progression in her solo, tension arcs and what not – and you’re trying to pay attention, because you love Davis’s feedback, but for some reason you can’t focus. The two minute recording of your own solo is one of the worst things you have ever seen. It’s nothing but misplaced steps and unbalanced moves. You want to think about meaning, to  look at what it is that you’re trying to say, but you can only see the points where your technique is lacking.

“What are you thinking, Lauren?” Davis says. “What are you going to work on for next time?”

You scoff. “My _développé_ and sticking to the goddamn count.”

He keeps your eyes on you, nodding slowly, before standing up again. “All right. Normani, if you stay a moment longer after class, I’ll help you with those last thirty seconds. Lauren—” He gives you a smile. “Keep watching.”

You have to force yourself to not roll your eyes. Sure, you’ll keep watching. Watching yourself fuck up some more at the one thing you’re supposed to be really good at.

So much for working with cameras. 

//

It takes nearly the whole month before you’re finally alone with her again.

You have seen her of course – in between classes, in the hallways of the academy. You’ve had lunch and dinner together, with Keaton and Normani joining you. You’ve talked and you’ve laughed and for the most part, it’s been okay. You haven’t tried to kiss her again and she has kept her distance better than ever before. Sometimes it’s like you can feel her eyes linger on you a second too long, and sometimes you have to stop yourself from accidentally touching her hand when you’re standing at the same barre. But it’s been all right.

She’s told you what she wanted, and now it’s up to you to figure out what you want.

(You didn’t expect you’d figure it out sitting in an empty library at eleven o’ clock on a Tuesday night, sleep deprived and sore from hours of dancing, trying to work your way through stacks of European History notes – but here you are.)

“Hey.”

You look up to find her smiling at you. She’s dressed in black jeans and a soft grey sweater instead of her usual ballet clothes. Her hair is down, falling in messy waves over her shoulders, and it jolts right through you because you don’t often get to see her like this. So casual and nice and _soft_.  

She catches you staring and you quickly look down. “Hi.”

“What are you reading?” She drops down in the seat next to you. 

“European History.” You make a vague gesture to your notes. “Can’t believe I nearly forgot we have a midterm coming up.”

Camila grins. “Got more important things on your mind?”

The way the low library light gets reflected in the brown of her eyes makes your throat go dry. You shift in your seat, unable to look away as you mumble, “Maybe.”

It seems to take her a little by surprise, like maybe she’d expect you to either laugh it off or deflect. It might be your mind playing tricks on you but it sounds like her voice goes just a little bit lower when she says, “What are you thinking about then?”

You wet your lips, dropping your pen on top of your notes and leaning back in your chair. “Everything,” you tell her truthfully. “I’ve been feeling a little stressed lately.”

“You want to talk about it?”

The slight edge of worry makes you breathe out sharper. “No, no, don’t worry.” She keeps eyeing you. “It’s just all these things I need to work through. Internships and midterms and my Choreography elective. All this work with cameras is driving me crazy, like, I feel like I’m not getting it at all. And I had a weird soft of fight with my mom some time ago, so things have been tense between us, and Lucy has been so busy lately, and I kind of miss you—” It slips out before you can stop yourself. “I mean, I miss working with you. Rehearsing and everything.”

You swallow hard, trying to calm yourself. There’s a slight tint of red working its way up Camila’s cheeks, and all it does is make things worse, because now she’s looking soft and _flustered_ , and you can’t stop yourself. “But maybe also everything else.”

She draws a deep breath. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly.

Camila is silent for a moment, and then she draws a little closer and says, “What are your saying?”

You swallow hard. “Um – maybe…” You press your fingers together. “I was thinking that maybe we can do something together. Like, next week? After midterms. Maybe we can—”

“Mila, hey.”

Camila spins around instantly. “Shawn!”

It’s the guy from the music store. The one with the nice short hair and the charming smile. Here. Right next to you. At your table. In your library. At your academy.

He nods at you like it’s perfectly normal. “Hey, Lauren. Good to see you again. What’s up?”

You frown. “How did you get in here?”

Instantly, his eyes go wide. “Oh, sorry. Is there a rule or something?” He glances over at Camila, looking uncertain. “You said to meet you at eleven and I was waiting by the gates but then I thought I’d just walk in and try to find…” He trails off, giving you a confused look. “Is it a problem?”

“No, no.” You quickly try to laugh it off. “It’s fine. Totally fine. Hi, Shawn.”

Camila gives you a weird look.

You ignore it, shifting forward in your seat. “I didn’t know you had plans together? The two of you. Tonight. Not that it’s any of my business. And I mean, you’re already here, so it’s not really…” You clear your throat. “Anyway, what are you guys going to do?”

Shawn smiles. “Oh, we’re just going to grab a drink at—”

Something stings hard behind your ribs. “It’s just that non-academy students are not allowed in the academy. Officially. You know? It’s an official rule.”

“Oh. Okay, well, next time—”

“I mean, I don’t make the rules.” You laugh. It sounds completely strangled. “I just thought you should know. That it’s… that it’s a rule.”

Shawn nods slowly, looking completely terrified. “Okay.”

You’re about to say something else, but then Camila suddenly shifts forward and coughs something that sounds a lot like _Bradley Simpson_.

It shuts you up instantly.

“Anyway…” Shawn says after a moment. “Shall we go?”

“Yes.” Camila gets up. “Now that all of us are up to date again with the finer details of school protocol…” She grabs her backpack from the floor and swings it over her shoulder. There’s something in her eyes that you can’t really place when she glances back and says, “Good luck with European History.”

She doesn’t look back anymore as she makes her way to the door of the library. Shawn gives you an awkward wave before turning around and following after her.

You stare down at your notes.

_Fuck_.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach. Something harsh and trembling. Your vision is blurry. You pick up your pen again and try to focus on the material, but you can’t. It takes you nearly ten minutes, picturing Camila and Shawn in some restaurant or bar together, laughing and talking and—

You’re jealous.

The realization hits you so hard and sudden that you have to blink back tears with the intensity of it.

Your heartbeat is an out-of-control-drum, your palms sweaty with nerves and frustration. You stare at the pages and pages of notes, and then you get up.

//

Davis’s studio is cold and empty. You don’t bother to warm up. In a near automatic move, you switch on the camera that is standing on top of the tripod at the front of the class and press _record_.

//

You’re in bed with your laptop. It’s a little past three in the night. With trembling fingers you insert the SD-card in the card reader and press play.

//

There’s a girl that looks exactly like you. She’s got your collarbones, your wrists, your ankles. She’s got the same eyelashes, the same teeth, corners of her mouth. She looks into the camera as if it’s something like a mirror, looks hard and close, and then begins to dance. She’s a whirlwind of different versions of herself; fragments and images. Some parts of her sixteen years old; nervous and angry and ashamed. Naked and shy. Other parts older; fireworks of confidence in her eyes, flashes of pleasure in her hips, this strange sort of jealously under every single one of her ribs. There’s a girl that looks like you. Sexuality caught right between her teeth, a mouthful of _I don’t know_. You can see her wanting, wanting. Wanting to spit it out.   

There’s a girl that looks exactly like you.              

_Keep watching, Lauren._

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the drops of your tears fall onto your fingers, don’t realize what you look like until the screen goes black and you see your own reflection staring back at you. It slams into your body like a shot of electricity.

(You look like every little thing that’s ever counted; you look like a sum of small things.)

:::

**november**

:::

“I think I like Camila.”

Lucy’s lips are pressed together and her eyes are narrowed. Even through the pixelated Skype connection you can feel yourself getting nervous under her hard stare. There’s a long moment of silence and then she says, “Are you kidding me?”

You get defensive right away. “What?”

Lucy groans. “Lo, it’s the middle of the night for me! You said you had something important to tell me. And here I am, expecting some big revelation and _this_ is it? I know you like her! You’ve liked her for two fucking years already! Not the mention the fact that I practically had to _live_ through your entire awkward flirting Barcelona adventure last summer so I don’t even understand why you think—”

“No, no!” Your voice trembles. “I mean, I think I want to do something about it.”

At that, Lucy’s expression shifts. “Do something about it?”

You fumble with the pillow. “Yeah, like… for real.”

Lucy shifts a little. “Okay, this is a little confusing to me. A month ago you told me nothing was going to happen and now all of a sudden you’ve changed your mind?”

“Not…” you stammer. “Not – not all of a sudden.”

It sounds a little weak, even to your own ears. Lucy frowns. “Lo, don’t get me wrong. If you feel like you’re ready, I’d say go for it. But you can’t keep going back and forth like this forever. I mean, are you sure?”

“I…”

You sigh hard, not really knowing what to say. She’s right of course. You can’t afford to play games anymore. And the truth is that you don’t know if you’re truly ready. But you also know that you are done with sitting around and waiting for things to happen to you; you want to _make_ something happen.  

“Look,” Lucy says, cutting through your spirals of thoughts. “Maybe just don’t do anything crazy right away. Just hang out. Do things together. Make sure she knows what you’re feeling and that she’s okay, you know?”

You nod, glancing down as you think about it. “Okay, yeah. You’re right.”

She smiles at you. “Hey.” It forces you to look up again. “I love you.”

That’s unexpected. “What?”

“You heard me.” Lucy laughs and rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, I’m happy we can talk about this, you know?”

For a moment you’re tempted to bring up the subject of her and Keaton. It’s still a little bit of a sensitive issue between the two of you, and with the rollercoaster of emotions you’ve been going through lately, you’re starting to understand why it might be so hard for her to talk about it with you.

You can’t force anyone to be ready for anything.

So instead of pushing it, you just smile back. “Me too.”  

You’re a little surprised to find that you actually, genuinely mean it.

//

Davis Vincent has been talking about location choreography since the beginning of the semester, but it’s not until halfway November that he brings it up again.

“I want you to use the city as inspiration,” he tells your class. “There is so much to be explored here. I want you to be specific. Find places that mean something to you and figure out a way to make them your own.”

It instantly causes you to panic. Though you’re definitely considering New York your home at this point, you have no idea where to start with an assignment like this.

And then you know.

//

“You need my help?” She grins at you. It sounds more than a little smug and you fight the urge to roll your eyes when she adds, “Lauren Jauregui is asking for help?”

“Please,” you mumble, trying not to blush. “I’ve been asking for your help for two years already…”

Camila laughs. “Right. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be stuck in first year contemporary.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to dance on pointe,” you counter quickly.

Camila’s raises her eyebrows at you but then grins wider. “Good thing you got over yourself and your whole ‘I’m better than everyone else’ attitude rather quickly then – or we’d both be worse off.”

“Hey!”

She gives you a look.

“Okay, fine…” You grin. “I guess I was a little bit arrogant back then.”

She leans against the door of the studio and shrugs with a smile. “I always kind of liked it, though.”

You’re standing just outside your classroom. Other students are passing by, either making their way out of the studio or trying to go inside for their next class. Anyone can see you talking to each other like this. Anyone can see the way you’re standing a little too close to each other. Anyone can tell that you’re slowly getting flustered because it seems like she’s kind of flirting with you – but for some reason you don’t really care. You just want her to keep smiling at you like that.

You only realize you’re staring, when Camila’s smile curls a little wider and she says, as casual as ever, “So, what do you need my help for?”

“Right.” You quickly draw back, trying not to blush too hard. “I need you to find a dance location for me.”

//

It’s cold but sunny as you make your way along the boardwalk. Your breath comes out in steamy puffs but there is something to say for the feeling of cold air in your lungs, the feeling of the quiet November all around you. Camila glances over at you, smiling softly as she watches you take everything in, from the ocean view to the Luna Park rides.

“My dad used to take me to Coney Island when I was a kid,” she says. “We’d buy hotdogs at Nathan’s, watch the fireworks, play those corny carnival games, go on a couple of rides. We’d do all the stupid tourist stuff and pretend we hated it, but it was the best.” She glances over at you, lights up at your smile. “Skipping class with you for it is not so bad either.”

She looks beautiful like this, with her cheeks flushed from the cold, her hair made messy by the ocean air. You push your hands a little deeper in the pockets of your jacket, before you dare to say, “Makes me think of when we went ice skating.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, smug smile on her lips. “Oh yeah?”

It sends something like a shiver through your body because of course you’re not only thinking about ice skating. You’re thinking about _afterwards_ when she came home to your house, shivering and cold, the bathtub and the heat and—

“Maybe we should do it again.”

It sounds more confident than you feel, but it has the intended effect. Camila blushes slightly, keeps her eyes on you, lets the moment stretch just long enough to show you she knows you’re not talking about ice skating. Then she smiles and looks away from you again. “We should.”   

It’s been like this all day already, every sentence either of you says laced with something else. You can’t seem to stop. No matter how much you’re trying to listen to Lucy’s advice to not let yourself get carried away, you can’t keep things neutral between you. You can’t resist.

“So, what’s the deal with this choreography piece?” Camila says. “What do you need to do exactly?”

“It’s our _long project_ as Davis calls it,” you tell her. “He wants us to work with cameras and to use different places in the city to make a self-portrait. We have a couple of months to work on it.”

“A self-portrait?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah… I mean, I don’t really know how that’s going to work out yet. But I thought, if you can show me places that mean something to _you_ , maybe I can use those as a starting point. As inspiration. Figure out what makes a place special, and then in the process make New York more my city too, you know?” You can feel yourself getting a little bit nervous as you struggle to explain what exactly you were thinking of. “This seemed like a nice place to start because it’s so iconic. But there are other places we can go to as well, of course… Places that I don’t know of. If you – if you want to, I mean…”

You trail off. Camila is still smiling at you, eyes narrowed slightly. She’s silent for a moment, and then she says, “So, what I’m getting from this is that you’re basically planning on spending a lot of time with me…” 

“Oh, uh—” You’re starting to blush. “Well, I don’t – only if you…”

She laughs. “God, I love making you blush.”

You try to say something witty back, but she’s only making you more flustered, so you only end up sputtering out some sort of nonsensical excuse instead.

“What about places that mean something to _you_ though?” Camila says after a moment. “Don’t you want to use those?”

You shrug. “Yeah, but my places don’t have much to do with New York.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re just regular places.” You run a hand through your hair. “They could be in any city. I mean, they’re in this one of course, but the reason that they’re special is not because they’re _in_ New York, but because of the things that they make me think of.”

“That seems like the point of the assignment, though.”

She shifts closer to you and you don’t know if it’s intentional or not, but your arms end up brushing together with every step you take. You have to push your hands deeper in the pockets of your jacket to stop yourself from reaching for her hand. 

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” She looks at you again. “It’s a self-portrait. Sure, it’s location work. But iconic New York is not really who you are, anyway, right?”

You can feel yourself swallow hard under her gaze. “I mean, I guess. I don’t – I don’t really know what parts of New York are me. I’m still figuring it out.”

She gives you a soft smile. “Maybe your solo can be about that too. What places were you thinking of?”

You think about it for a second. “ _Grishko_. Fonteyn. That theater we broke into once together with Lucy.” Camila laughs and you can’t stop your own smile. “I don’t know… The High Line, maybe. _The Queens Hotel_. Subway stations. The rooftop of your apartment building.”

You’ve said it before you’ve properly thought it through. You bite your lip, backtracking quickly. “I mean, I don’t really know. That’s why I’m—”

“My rooftop?” She’s stopped walking. “Why?”

You should probably make something up. Instead, in a shot of pure bravery, you force yourself to meet her eyes and tell the truth. “Because it’s where we kissed.”

She swallows visibly. Her lips part slightly and for half a second her gaze flicks down to your lips and you can barely keep yourself from leaning forward. Then, her eyes are on yours again; dark and searching and breathtakingly beautiful. “What about the studio?”

“What do you—”

“We kissed in the studio,” she says, quietly. “Before the rooftop. First year. When we were dancing in the dark. When you – you got so…”

You nod slowly, flashes of it rushing through your mind; the kiss and your anger and your panic and your _I fucking told you I’m not into girls_. “I know.” You’ve never talked about it, never even really acknowledged it like this before. It’s a little tight at the bottom of your throat. “That’s why - the rooftop…” Your voice is hoarse. “That’s where we began.”

 You know you should stop talking. You know that if you want to follow your own advice, you can’t say things like “we” and “began” in the same sentence. You can’t stand this close to her.

Camila licks her bottom lip, smiles a little and then says, “Come on. We both know we began on the first day of first year classes. When you were showing off at the barre and being a bitch to me for no reason.”

You feel a spark of confidence at the fact that she’s going along with it. “You mean when you were inexcusably late and then proceeded to distract the entire class by taking all your clothes off?”

She kinks her eyebrow up. “Oh, that was distracting for you?”

It’s making you flushed again, but for some reason you still manage to have enough composure to tell her, “Yeah, why do you think I was being such a bitch to you?”

Camila laughs, sound of it thrown to the wind. Beautiful like this; right here in front of you, smiling and blushing and close.

You can’t stop yourself. “You’re wrong, though.”

“What?”

“Auditions,” you say. “I’m sitting in the back of the theater and I’m still jet lagged from the flight. I’m missing Barcelona and I’m bored and angry. I’m not paying any attention. Everything’s the same. Everyone’s the same. All of a sudden my mother screams and I look up. There’s a girl on stage. Doesn’t have pointe shoes. Dances barefoot instead to Italian music…” Camila’s mouth parts, but you force yourself to go on. “I can’t look away. Not even for a second. My heart’s just racing and racing, and I’m thinking—” Your breath catches for a second. “I’m thinking, _who is she, who is she_ – and _how does she dance like that_ …” You’re standing so close to her that you could count her eyelashes. “When she’s done, she looks right at me, smiles… and we begin.”    

The air is taut between you, buzzing with tension and electricity. Camila is looking at you like she can see right through you, and you’re thinking that maybe she can. Maybe she’s the only one you’ll break open for like this. The only one you’ll ever let close enough to—

“Laur…”

It rushes through you sudden and hard, the weight of your own words, something so accidentally close to a confession. It gets the best of you instantly, and you quickly try to brush it off. “Guess that means I should actually use the theater. That’s all I’m saying.”

Camila laughs, airily and light, like she’s brushing over it as well. “Yeah…”

She’s about to step back and continue walking but before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “I want to do something that shows many things at once. For my self-portrait. Like I’m still figuring out all the parts.”    

She’s quiet for a second. Then her eyes go wide. “Fuck, I know the perfect place.”

//

It’s not until much later that night that you watch the footage back. You’re still on a happy sort of high from spending the day together, which turned out to be less of an assignment focused afternoon and more of a just skipping class so you could go on all the rides kind of afternoon. Still, when you connect the camera to your laptop, you’re hit with the same sort of shock as when you were watching your private rehearsal.

It’s the mirrors.

It’s the way you’re figuring out how to make your reflection work for you.

Multiplied, fragmented. The mirror maze at Luna Park is showing you in layers, in frames, all these distorted images that somehow still make up the same thing. It’s unpolished and unrehearsed. Vulnerable and open. It’s all the things you’re struggling with, mended into spatial dimensions that still create something solid. 

You’ve already got your phone in your hand, pressing Camila’s name in your contact list.

“Is this where you’re going to tell me you are going to fire me as your cameraman?” she says instead of _hello_.

“Let’s go back tomorrow,” you say. “I’ve got so many ideas.”   

:::

**december**

:::

November picks up speed, days blurring into each other with classes, exams and rehearsals, and before you know it, it’s December already. You and Camila are spending a lot more time together, not just for your solo project, but also because your classes are working together for the upcoming Christmas show.

In the past, choreography for the annual show was mostly left to your teachers, but now that Davis Vincent is at the academy, your mother has decided to shift strategies, allowing you and the other students to choreograph short pieces that are to be performed after the traditional, classical section.

In a move that can only be explained as completely intentional, Davis has paired you and Camila together.

He keeps grinning at you from across the studio, watching you with a glint in his eyes. You’re trying not to let it get to your head.

“From the top again,” you tell Camila. “Use your shoulders to steady the movement.”

She gives you a look. “You love telling me what to do, don’t you?”

It burns down your spine. “I – that’s not… Just try it again?”

She smirks before taking a breath and moving around, spinning out in the way you’ve showed her before, moving up on the tip of her pointe shoe but losing her balance at the last second. It’s close but it’s not good enough.

“You’ve got to trust your body more,” you tell her. “You’ve got to trust the floor and the music. You’re not going to fall. I promise.”

“Sounds like something I’m usually telling you,” she says, slight hint of frustration to her voice.

You can’t stop your smile. “Well, it’s good advice.” You step forward until you’re standing in front of her, reaching out to grab her wrist. “Really, Camz, you’ve got this. You’re the best dancer here. Do you think I would let anyone else in this room do that move?”

Her eyes are distractingly pretty up close like this. She raises her eyebrow at you. “I thought choreographer-dancer relations were supposed to be strictly professional…”

You bite down on your lip, speechless for a moment. She winks at you, before stepping back and starting from the top again. She’s steadier than before, but still loses her footing at the very last moment. She spins around, all confidence gone again as she slams her hands down on the barre and swears loudly. “ _Fuck_ – why can’t I just get it right?” 

You’re in front of her in seconds, hands on her shoulders, forgetting you’re in a crowded studio with all your classmates. “Hey.”

She sighs hard, looking up at you. “I just – it’s the first time you get to choreograph something for an actual audience. I don’t want to screw it up.”

It jolts through your body. “Babe, you’re not going to screw it up.”

She stares at you. “What?”

“You’re not going to screw it—” You stop talking abruptly, realization hitting you in a wave of heat. _Fuck._ You’re burning up under her gaze. “I mean – uh… You’re… you’re really good, is what I’m saying. You’re going to be great and everyone will love it and you won’t screw things up, okay?”

She smiles softly. “Okay… babe.”

You’re blushing and blushing and blushing.

Camila takes your hands from her shoulders, and places them on her waist again, hint of something low and husky in her voice as she says, “Show me again?”

You swallow hard, before pressing your fingers a little bit harder to her midriff. “Okay, so – you’ve got to steady yourself here as you turn outward, onto your pointe shoes, and then… uh…” You move your hands to her back, forced to step a little bit closer to her to reach around properly, spreading them slowly out over her shoulder blades. “Find the space here for your lines… like that.”

She shivers.

You still for a moment, before brushing the tips of your fingers of your right hand slowly up her spine, to the line of her neck, over the curve of her shoulder to her pulse point. Her eyes flutter closed as she inches forward into your touch. You lick your lips, still tracing the outline of her shoulder blade with your left hand. Camila’s eyes fly open again, and she looks right up at you, biting down on her bottom lip. “Laur…”

You feel a rush of confidence run through your body at the way she sounds slightly breathless. “What?”

“You know what…” she mumbles.

You brush your fingers over her skin again, slowly, watching her respond to it. “That you like it when I do this?”   

She smiles slightly. “Oh, you think you know what I like, don’t you?”

“I mean…” you tell her, watching her eyes flutter closed again. “I’d say I’m pretty confident about it.”

She hums softly, the sound of it buzzing inside of your chest. You bring your fingers down over her collarbone, brushing lower and lower—

“How’s the ballet coming along, ladies?”

You jump away from Camila as Davis’s voice cuts through the tension. He’s leaning against the barre, eyeing you.

“Oh, it’s great,” you stammer. “I was just – we were just – finding balance.”

“Finding balance,” he echoes. “All right…”

He looks at you for another moment longer, and it almost seems like he is trying not to laugh. Then, he folds his arms across his chest and says, “Well, I’m all for finding balance, but class is over. It’s like you didn’t hear the bell or something.”

“Right.”

You glance around. The classroom is completely empty. Camila is already grabbing her sweater from the end of the barre, blushing hard as she shoves it into her bag. She’s already at the door, mumbling a quick thanks to Davis before hurrying out of the studio like nothing even happened.

“Oh, Lauren,” Davis says, grinning widely as you grab your own bag from the floor. “Don’t forget to cool off. Looks like you really need it.”   

//

It’s a success.

After weeks of some of the most intense rehearsals you’ve ever had to go through, the Christmas performance is a complete success.

The first and second years actually perform a pretty decent classical first half, but as you make your way through the reception afterwards, all everyone seems to be talking about is the choreography pieces of the third and fourth years. You can hear your own name buzzing around the room, whispered quietly by dancers from professional companies, spoken more loudly by close friends of your mother’s.

Even your mother herself is surprisingly enthusiastic.

“Darling.” She pulls you close to her and hands you a glass of champagne like it’s nothing. “Your piece was beautiful.” She turns to one of her friends, a tall man in a nice dark blue suit. “I must say, Richard, I originally didn’t think Fonteyn was really the right place for choreography classes, but perhaps I was wrong.”

The man gives you a polite smile. “You’re very talented. Have you ever considered a career in choreography?”

At that, your mother gives a bit of a tight laugh, though. “After the Bolshoi, maybe. Right, Lauren?”

You’re not really sure what to say. Before you can come up with something, though, your eyes catch on Camila, who is standing by the doors with Keaton and Normani, looking right back at you. She’s dressed in a short black dress, glass of champagne in her hand. As soon as she catches you looking at her, she smiles and starts making her way over to you, weaving through the crowd.

When your mother sees her coming, her eyes light up and she turns back to the man, clearly ready to introduce him to Camila. But before she can say anything, Camila grabs your wrist and turns to your mother. “Mrs. Jauregui, can I quickly steal Lauren away for a moment?”

Your mother blinks hard, but then she gives you both a smile. “Of course.”

Camila pulls you away immediately, intertwining her fingers with yours, pulling you towards the doors where Keaton and Normani are still waiting.

“Where are we going?” you say.

She needs to speak over the noise of the reception. Her breath is hot against your ear as she leans in and says, “I want to take you somewhere. We have to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

She grins. “Your first successful performance as a choreographer. The beginning of winter break. Christmas. I don’t even know. But I know the right place.”

Excitement rushes through you. “Oh yeah?” 

She nods. “Oh, yes. Get ready, babe.”  

Your heart starts racing instantly. You don’t really know if it’s the fact that you’re sneaking out to go somewhere other than this boring after party or the fact that she’s confidently calling you _babe_ now.

Maybe it’s both.

//

“My best friend from primary school invited me,” Camila explains as the four of you make your way out of the cab. “Her cousin owns the club. She already put our names on the list.”

“And they won’t ID us?” Keaton says.

Camila shakes her head. “Not if you stay with me until we’re inside.”

It seems like a bit of a sketchy place. A tall, old warehouse at the end of an ally. There are faded letters on the front that read _Paradiso_ but it hardly seems a place of paradise. There’s a long line outside, though. When you finally get to the end of it, the bouncer eyes you up and down for a heavy moment, clearly noticing that you’re all underage, but when Camila mention’s some girl’s name – Jane or something – he checks the list and lets you go through.

The second you step inside, the atmosphere shifts.  

“It used to be a warehouse,” Camila says, dragging you inside. “They took out all the higher floors though, made them into balconies instead. So that it’s one large space.”

It’s not just large; it’s gigantic. The ceiling is practically invisibly. Up along the walls there are stairs, leading higher to balconies and platforms, indicating where the old floors used to be. The DJ is playing on a large podium at the end of the room. On every side and in the center there are bars. There are people everywhere; dancing, having drinks, talking in dark corners, doing more than talking.

“What do you think?” Camila grins.

You stare at her, wide eyed and in shock. She smiles even more, and the sight of it heats up your blood. You’ve only had two glasses of champagne so far but it’s like you can feel the alcohol in your veins already.

As if she’s read your thoughts, Camila says, “Let’s go get drinks. You can meet my friend.”

She leads the way through the dancing crowd to a smaller bar in the far corner where a tall, beautiful girl is moving swiftly back and forth behind the bar, pouring drinks like she’s a professional even though she is clearly just as underage as you are. As soon as she catches sight of Camila, her face lights up. She quickly says something to the guy she’s working with and then pushes past him to leave the bar. Before you know it, she’s right in front of you, hugging Camila close.

“That took for-fucking-ever,” she yells right over the music. “I was starting to think you were never going to get your ass out of that fancy ballet school of yours.”

Camila laughs and turns to you, Normani and Keaton. “Guys, meet Dinah.”

After quick introductions, the girl – Dinah – eyes you up and down for a second. “So, you’re Lauren then?” She grins hard. “Figures Mila would fall for great legs and an attitude.”

“ _Dinah—_ ”

“What?” she says. “You have a type. We all know it.” She quickly turns to you. “I mean that in the best way possible, by the way. Nothing wrong with a little attitude.”

You ignore the way your stomach flips at what she’s implying, smiling right back at Dinah instead. “I agree.”

She laughs. “So, what do you want to drink? Everything’s on the house tonight.” You share an uncertain look with Normani and Keaton that makes Dinah laugh even louder. “C’mon. I’ve been trying to get Mila to introduce me to her friends for months. Girl’s only ever thinking about dancing.” She makes her way back behind the bar again and starts pulling glasses out to pour you drinks. “Speaking of… I’d say it’s about damn time we finally got some actual dancers in this place.” 

//

The beat is so loud that you can feel it pumping in your chest. You’re a long way from sober, feeling the alcohol spread through your system like a wave of heat and dizziness. Your throat is dry – and you can’t stop watching her.

There’s dancing and then there’s _this_.

She’s slow and sensual. Moves her hips to the beat in a way that should be illegal, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs, higher and higher. She’s like a magnet; red lipstick and bare skin on display, glancing back over her shoulder at you, drawing you closer and closer, even though you’re paralyzed right where you are, painfully turned on.

Blood rushing hot through your body.   

She looks at you over her shoulder, and her lips curl into something hungry. She’s not a storm; she’s a goddamn fucking hurricane, ready to tear you to pieces.

You don’t know how much longer you can stay away.

In an instant, you turn around, walking over to the bar again. You need a drink. You need some water. You need to clear your head because if she’s going to look at you like that one more time, you’ll break every single one of your rules and—

Dinah slams a shot of tequila on the counter. “Girl, you need to loosen up.”

You give her a look. “I think I need some—”

“No, no.” Dinah holds her hand up. “I’m having none of that. Take your shot and turn around again.” 

There’s so much tension in your body. Maybe Dinah’s right. Maybe you do need to loosen up. God knows you won’t survive this night in any other way. Dinah pours another shot before you’ve even taken the first one, and hands you the salt shaker with a look. You give up. One shot. Then another. They burn down your throat. Your head spins hard. Lingering taste of lime on your bottom lip.

In a haze, you make your way back through the dancing bodies, the heat of the club, the music echoing in every part of your body—

—and then all of a sudden she’s pressed against you, wild and hot, hands on your hips, pulling you in.

“Finally…” Her lips are burning against the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine with every word she breathes out, hot and needy. “Been wanting to dance with you all night already.”

_Fuck._

She grinds her body into yours, fingers pressing hard into your skin, hooking you into place. You can feel her uneven breathing against the bare skin of your neck, every rocking movement of her hips. Your body reacts to it right away; tension shooting down – heat and want and _need_ spinning hot between your legs.    

It’s not the alcohol, it’s not the music – it’s _her_.

You feel close to fainting.

“Come on, Lauren,” she husks into your ear. “Are you gonna dance with me or what?’

You try to resist, try to keep yourself steady, but it’s too much. Scent of her and feel of her and the way she’s moving against you _like that_.

Her eyes lock into yours, glazed because of the alcohol. “Laur…” She breathes it right against your lips. “For fuck’s sake… Do I have to do all the work myself?”

You know she’s saying it to mess with you, to rile you up, to make you lose the last shred of self-control you still have. You know she’s doing it because she _knows_ how to get to you. She’s playing you, playing you, playing you, getting exactly what she wants – but fucking hell, it still works.

Your control splinters instantly.

Hands on her hips, you pull her into you, losing yourself completely. It’s hot like a fever; moving your hips with hers in a rhythm that is making you wet with need.

Camila ghosts her mouth over the skin of your neck, before flicking her tongue out and licking at your pulse point. You shudder and she bites down hard, only for a moment, before soothing the ache with her tongue, her lips.

“Fuck, Camz…”         

She moves even closer to you, pressing harder as she whispers in your ear. “God, I want you so fucking much.”

It’s less than a second, and then you’re kissing her.

Her mouth tastes like liquor, wet and wanting, kissing you back like she was ready for it, like she was waiting for it. She’s got her fingers at the back of your neck, tangling them in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. She kisses you desperately, kisses like the rhythm of your heart. You can feel your back collide abruptly with a wall—

—and then it’s everything at once.

Your fingers inch up under the hem of her dress. She bites down on your bottom lip. Hard. You moan into her mouth as she rocks her hips into your hand. Camila’s hand digs possessively into your hip and you swear you must be dripping down your thighs with how fucking much you want her to touch you – but then the beat of the music changes abruptly, and you break away, realizing with a shock that you’re still in public.

She’s staring at you hard, lips wet and swollen, hair a tousled mess, dress riding high on her thighs.

“Come home with me,” you say.

Her mouth parts, eyes dark and glinting in the shadows of the club. For half a moment you think she’s going to walk away from you, but then she grabs your hand, and starts pulling you through the sea of people, in the direction of the exit.

//

You’ve barely got time to blurt out the address to the cab driver, before Camila’s mouth is on yours again. She pulls you into her, running her fingers through your hair, kissing you like she can’t get enough. You’ve lost every sense of control, wanting only to get closer and closer. You push her back against the seat – and then her hand burns a hot trail down thigh and she pulls your leg over her own so that you’re straddling her.

Your mind is spinning.

Her fingers hook around the strap of your dress and she pulls it down, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses to the exposed skin. Your head falls back and you can’t hold back the throaty noise that escapes you as she scrapes her teeth over your sensitive skin. Camila swears under her breath at the sound and rocks into you.

_Fuck._

You grind your hips down harder. She’s got her mouth at your throat, her fingers between your legs, inching higher and higher up the inside of your thigh. You know your panties are ruined. You know that any second she is going to find out just exactly how turned on—

“Fuck… you’re so wet.” She stills her hand immediately. You fall forward into her, not able to stop the little whine of protest that escapes from the back of your throat. Your hips shift forward, seeking friction, but Camila doesn’t move her fingers. Her eyes are wide with hunger. “I’m not even touching you yet...” she whispers against your lips, drawing mindless patterns high over the inside of your thigh, inches from where you want her. “…I’m not even touching you and you’re already dripping over my fingers.”

“Please,” you breathe out. “Please, just… _please._ ”

You don’t care if it sounds desperate. You are desperate.

She swallows hard, then slowly shakes her head. “You think I’m just going to make you come like this? Right here, in the back of a cab?”

“ _Camila_ …”

She swears again. “Fuck – you really want it, don’t you?” 

For half a moment there’s something else in the air between you. Something sharp, cutting right through the haze of alcohol and heat. Your breath catches at the back of your throat at the look in her eyes.

You’ve got to say it.

You _want_ to say it.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “I want it. Camz… I want – all of it. I want everything.”

She kisses you and you fall forward, giving yourself over.

//

She tears your dress off your body the second you stumble over the doorstep of your dorm room, drinks in the sight of you, half naked and trembling in front of her. Then, she slowly pulls down the zipper of her own dress and pulls it off, smirking at the way your breathing quickens instantly.

You’re so on edge that the sight of her standing in front of you like this pulses wave after wave of heat between your legs.

She steps forward and you can barely hold yourself back from pushing her onto your bed, but then Camila smiles and says, “Let’s see if I can get you to beg for it again…”

It nearly makes you come on the spot.

She leans in, presses herself against you, ghosts her lips over your mouth, your neck, snapping your bra open easily. The second it drops to the floor, her tongue flicks out against the tip of your nipple and you have to bite down your lip to keep yourself from screaming out. Camila moans softly, before licking harder, more deliberately. You arch into her touch. Her fingers catch under the waistband of your panties. You rock forward.

“Want these off, Lauren?”

You hum in response, unable to respond in any other way. She drifts her fingers over your legs teasingly, smiles into your skin when you writhe against her, so, so desperate for it.

Then she draws her hands back suddenly and pushes you abruptly down onto the bed. She’s all dark eyes and seduction as she takes her own bra off and sides out of her panties. Your throat goes dry at the sight of her naked.

Then she climbs on top of you and it’s everything at once; her mouth kissing, licking and sucking down your neck, the slick, wet slide of her body on yours, her hands touching you everywhere.

You’re going to faint.

Her mouth goes lower She pushes your legs up, slides your panties down and pushes them wider, kissing up the inside of your legs.

“Fuck, Camz… _fuck._ ”

You arch up and into her, not able to hold back anymore. You need her to touch you already. You need her fingers inside of you. Her mouth on your clit. You need her tongue to lick you open. You need to hear her every stuttered exhale at how hard you’re responding to her; every low moan at the back of her throat as you move against her.

“Please… fuck – fuck… Camila, _please_.”

Even with you much you need it, you scream when she does it, tasting you, licking you. Your back arches off the mattress, eyes shutting closed with pleasure. Your hands tangle hard in her hair, pulling and pushing, and you press yourself against her mouth, over and over, cry out when she slides her fingers up your thigh and into you while she keeps sucking on your clit.

She makes you come four times in a row before you’re finally able to get on top, pushing your hips down onto her stomach, gasping with how sensitive you are against her. Her eyes are blown wide. She’s looking up at you with something red hot and wanting. Cheeks flushed. Hair the wildest mess.

Your pulse is racing, your breathing is sharp. You want to make her yours in every single way.

Camila leans up and kisses you, bites at your bottom lip until you’re moaning in her mouth. You fall forward, taste of yourself sharp on her tongue.

You slide your hand between your bodies, losing your mind, your heart, everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I don't really know how I feel about this chapter. What do you think? Are we getting anywhere? :)  
> Updates will be a little bit slow because my semester started again and I somehow thought it would be a good idea to switch to a double major at the very last moment, so all I'm doing these days is studying. I will try my best though! The next chapters are going to be crazy. Get ready.   
> Hope you all have a really great day, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for all the love <3 I'm sending it right back at all of you.
> 
> -Blake

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey everyone,
> 
> Hope you liked it! The next chapter will be the second half of the first year, so January - June. I'll probably structure the entire fic like that, so it will be 9 chapters in total (two chapters for each year + one extra). Let me know what you think so far!  
> Have a very lovely day!
> 
> -Blake
> 
> P.S. Dancing in the dark is fucking magical. I used to do it sometimes when I was in theatre school. You should try it once :)


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